The Dark Side of the Moon
by Motaki
Summary: What happened, exactly, to make Sherlock Holmes Sherlock Holmes? Snippets of Sherlock's childhood, adolescence and pre-John adulthood, mixed with post-Reichenbach John-plot. Chapter Sixty-Eight, "Ancient Inferno", shows our protagionists (heroes doesn't seem right) travelling to Slovakia to begin a showdown with our villains. Also, Mohammad and Valspar learn Lydia's full story.
1. Cain and Abel

The Dark Side of the Moon

A _Sherlock_ Post-Reichenbach Fanfic

Cain and Abel

1

Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes despised each other, on the face of it.

The simple answer was sibling rivalry; bog-standard, sibling rivalry.

The long answer had deep roots, spanning the entirety of Sherlock's life.

At first, he'd been _thrilled_ to have an older brother.

He'd been an eager child, full of energy- perpetually running around everywhere, much to his mother's grief.

And Mycroft- mysterious, all-seeing, omniscient elder Mycroft had been his idol.

The age gap- seven years- had accustomed Mycroft to being the _one,_ however. The firstborn. The center of attention.

The star of the show. The _best._

For a few years, Sherlock had believed it.

He'd been _delighted_ to be the foot-soldier: _go get this for me, would you, Sherlock?_

_No problem._

Hand and foot service, that was Mycroft's expectation.

And as a child of only five, he hadn't been quite able to see that he was being used, while Mycroft- now thirteen years old and a god in his brother's eyes- laughed behind his back.

_Is that your brother, or your dog, Mycroft?_

_Some days it's hard to tell the difference._

When he'd started school, he'd quickly shown a penchant for getting into fights.

With his sharp skills of deduction- not quite as good as Mycroft's, of course- he could easily see the things that others couldn't even begin to guess at the existence of.

_How do you know that, you scrawny little rat? How? You been spying on us?_

Combine an odd personality with skin that remained stubbornly pale and looks that were unique, it promised danger. Add in the name of _Sherlock-_ a ridiculous, never-heard-of name- and he was the school punching bag.

So he learned to fight.

Mycroft, attending the same all-boys boarding school, disapproved.

But still, Mycroft- ever-cool, ever-calm, all-knowing Mycroft- still held Sherlock's respect.

When he held his mind in a crisis, it taught Sherlock that panicking served no purpose. When he stoically endured their parents' occasional drunken rages- things that would land Sherlock in the hospital, but never seemed to touch the godly Mycroft- he learned that emotions were not an advantage.

He forgave his parents.

Mycroft held his saintly status until Sherlock reached the age of eleven.

It was Mycroft's last year of regular school before he was shipped off to some fancy university. It was near the end of term that one of the gangs- Sherlock was universally hated, and looked down upon by his older brother.

But Mycroft was a god, as far as Sherlock was concerned, until that hot day in June.

Freedom was so close, he could almost taste it, Sherlock had thought, sitting alone in a secluded spot during recess. Just one more month, and he'd be free.

Two more months, and Mycroft would be gone. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.

He was a thin child, already gangly, with legs longer than most boys of his age. His fingers were slender and agile- excellent at dissecting various things, or picking locks.

His mind was like an engine, going constantly, the pistons eternally firing on full; he saw everything and everyone, noticed the smallest things.

He knew how to lie.

He knew how to bow and obey, to act subservient. He knew how to gather information and hold it long enough to pass an exam- if he didn't bother to pass the exams, there'd be trouble- and he knew how to delete it immediately afterward.

He spent more time in his own mind (his 'mind-palace', as he called it and Mycroft taunted him about) than in the real world- seeing and deducing, understanding and tucking away bits of information that could be vaguely useful.

Did it matter that the earth went around the sun? Did it?

His antics irritated almost everyone, and he didn't have any friends.

Except Mycroft.

Sort of.

Because Mycroft was something _else._

Mycroft was different. Mycroft had friends. People _liked_ Mycroft. Mycroft liked _people._

Mycroft, in short, was everything that Sherlock wasn't: smart, popular, talented, well-off.

He was better. He was the firstborn, and got everything.

Sherlock got the scraps left over.

_Speak of the devil,_ he thought, watching a clump of fifteen-year-olds (he had a vague notion that they were of Mycroft's ilk) wander his way.

He braced, and gathered his legs. He just might need to disappear at a moment's notice.

But Mycroft always knew where he was. All Sherlock had was a small skill for the violin and a (in his view) a smaller possession of the gift Mycroft had in hoards and delighted his friends with.

It worked for Mycroft. People hated Sherlock for it.

Maybe it just wasn't meant to be understood.

Mycroft was the firstborn.

Maybe that made him better.

It must have.

A quick scan of the approaching gang showed them to indeed be among Mycroft's massive group of lackeys: Fischer, Freeman, Desnar, Kennedy, and Quaritch, he noted, five of the more malicious ones.

And a figure, far off in the background.

"Backed yourself into a corner again, Sherly," Quaritch called, the group spreading out slightly. "You still haven't gotten any smarter, I see."

"Smarter than you," Sherlock called back, even as the hair on the back of his neck rose. He _hated_ being called Sherly.

He didn't like his name. _Sherlock Holmes:_ there was far too much stupidity in those two words.

"Split off, boys," Quaritch ordered. "Don't want him escaping by a back route."

To Sherlock's dismay, two of them split of and circled around to watch his flank.

Still patiently sitting, from twenty meters off, he decided to begin to taunt them.

He was already circled. There would be a fight.

"How did you skin your hands this time, you bonehead?" Sherlock shouted. "Did you trip over your own feet? No, wait, let me guess- you punched something that fought back!"

Quaritch snarled murderously, infuriated.

Recklessly, Sherlock laughed just to make him more mad. "And I suppose you got that black eye a while back from someone half your size?" He flashed a dazzling grin. "You're like a troll! All muscle, no brain!"

Only ten feet away, Quaritch lunged.

In a flash, Sherlock stood and dodged. He weighed almost half what Quaritch did, the older being a rugby player and very heavily muscled. Sherlock was lightweight, but strong enough.

But no match for five on one.

He hit Quaritch with a devastating right hook, and registered the figure standing in the background: Mycroft.

Mycroft, who saw and knew all.

Mycroft, who ruled the world.

Mycroft had to save him.

Wouldn't he?

And even as Sherlock fought tooth and nail for survival, he stood by.

And even as he struggled, Sherlock's world fell out from underneath his feet.

Mycroft… all-knowing, all-seeing, omnipotent, firstborn Mycroft, would call them off.

He had to help.

He had to do something.

And Sherlock realized that no, his older brother was not God.

In that moment of life-changing revelation, the first heavy blow got through his defense.

Even as his younger brother- his blood, the one person in the world he was _socially obliged to protect-_ screamed for help, as the blood they shared stained the asphalt, Mycroft stood by.

He did nothing, even when Sherlock begged and cried.

Holmes, the younger, was in the hospital for six weeks.

**

Mycroft left before he got out of the hospital- with a limp, with visibility in both eyes reduced, with broken bones in his ribs and arms, and a severe "high-risk" concussion.

It was another week before he could see properly.

Another after that before he could get out of bed.

And now he was alone.

He'd been expelled from the boarding school. The future was vague.

And pain was sharp, and present.

Pain was a constant, both physically and mentally.

_Mycroft isn't what I thought he was._

He was only eleven, and he'd taken a beating that had nearly killed him, and been betrayed by his own brother.

And so it was that a respect bordering on worship turned like a snake to hate.

No sight or sound of the _firstborn_ brother for those six agonizing, terrifying six weeks in the hospital, Sherlock thought. Oh, no. No desperate, pathetic attempt at redemption. No _I'm so sorry, but I couldn't control them._

No apology stung more than a horrible one, he realized. It was like Mycroft hadn't even _cared_ to see if the brother he'd abandoned had survived.

When as he walked down the hall, Sherlock's leg gave suddenly, forcing him to clutch at the walls, he swore violently, and struggled to regain his footing.

_I'll get you for this, Mycroft. Some day. I swear it._

**

At age fourteen, Sherlock was back in school.

It was in December that during an exam, the teacher put down the phone, and (watched carefully by Sherlock) walked through the rows, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"You're wanted in the Office," he said under his breath, holding out a hand for the paper.

Sherlock quickly rolled it up, and giving it to him, walked swiftly down the halls towards the principal's office.

He had scars to prove Mycroft's treachery, and not a day passed when he didn't think of screaming his brother's name until his voice broke with no result.

Three years. Maybe he'd finished University already. Maybe the jackass was back. Maybe it was time to beat him up, and let him scream without anybody coming for aid.

He turned into the principal's office- or just "the Office" as it was called by most everybody.

The principal and Sherlock got along fairly well, but surprisingly, it was just the two of them in the room.

"You wanted to see me?" Sherlock asked, quickly giving the man a look-over.

_New dog. Congratulations._

He held up a finger, pointing at the phone in his hand.

"He's right here, Mrs. Holmes," the principal said. "Yes… Yes… I'll pass you to him."

_Mrs. Holmes?_

With shaky hands, suddenly uncertain, he took the receiver.

"Mother?"

He listened, and everything inside him went numb.

_Dear Christ. No._

"Oh, God," Sherlock whispered. "I'm coming. I'm coming home, right away."

**

He'd expected Mycroft. He'd expected Mycroft to be there, taller than him, better than him, so goddamn smug you could cut it with a knife.

He'd gotten a tearful phone call from his mother.

His father was dying.

Through drunken rages, through fights, through tears, Sherlock had forgiven. He'd stuck.

And now his father was dying.

_So much I didn't say,_ he thought. _So much I'll never get to say. Oh, God. My father's dying._

"Thank you," he said quietly to the taxi, passing the fare over and dragging his luggage behind him as he approached the magnificent manor-house.

He unlocked the door and instantly dropped his bags- after noting the _lack_ of any sign, any sign at all, of Mycroft.

Selfish fucking bastard.

Mycroft would have left a sign, just to irritate him. _I got here first. I'm back, Sherlock- isn't that a bitch?_

Mycroft had abandoned his family.

Well, he'd learned not to trust him.

The entry was a magnificent thing, entirety made of rich, old wood. It was mostly a small alcove, with the broad stairs directly in front of (but sideways- it had never made sense to him) to the door. The kitchen was to the left of the stairs, a living room with a sliding glass door straight beyond the stairs, and a corridor leading to bedrooms and closets on his right.

"Sherlock," his mother said quietly, walking slowly down the stairs.

He quickly crossed to her, gently took her hands in his.

"Where is he?"

Tears shone in her eyes. "Upstairs. He's close to the end."

Sherlock- the second son, the less-loved- sprinted up the stairs, and opened the door to his father's room.

The atmosphere was gaunt.

The light was low, entirely that of candles; the standard luxury and opulence that drowned the rest of the house was on fine display here, but subdued.

His father's head turned slowly to look at him miserably from his bed, and Sherlock rushed to his side, taking his hand as his mother reentered.

_Skin is cold. Eyes are hollow. Thin- emaciated. Skin clinging tightly to bones. Heartbeat irregular._

_Infection._

He expected, almost expected, to hear those painful words, as the old man's eyes were blind with pain.

_Mycroft, is that you?_

But it wasn't Mycroft's name that Kerran Holmes spoke.

"Sherlock," his father said quietly, and those fingers clamped on his son's hand like a vise. "I'm so glad you came."

Sherlock bowed his head. Anybody could have seen his father's time was near.

"I'm sorry," Kerran said suddenly, the words sounding pained.

His eyes tormented, Sherlock lifted his gaze. "Don't be."

"I won't be able to be at peace with myself unless I say it," his father said, the old authority flowing in his voice. Instantly, Sherlock was silenced.

"I'm sorry for everything," Kerran whispered. "For the rages. The fights. For Mycroft. For loving him more than you."

A tear escaped from Sherlock's eyes, and then another as he held his father's hand in both of his.

"I forgive you," he said quietly, and had never meant anything more in his life.

Slowly, Kerran raised his other hand, and gently brushed his fingertips along Sherlock's cheek before holding them there.

"My son," he finished. "My second-born. I am proud of you. Don't let anybody tell you different."

Shaken, deeply, it was all Sherlock could do to hold back the tears.

The second son, Kerran thought. The quiet one, the one without friends, the one that got picked on, the underappreciated son.

He had been wrong.

Sherlock was a greater person than Mycroft.

"I love you," Kerran murmured.

Before Sherlock could finish processing those foreign words, the pulsepoint on his father's wrist stopped.

**

"I've taken a month off from school. They won't miss me, and you need me here."

Too miserable to argue, Sherlock's mother only sat in silence.

It wasn't fair, Sherlock thought, that Mycroft could abandon his home and still be the heir.

Everything he saw- everything, the house, the grounds, all of it- would become Mycroft's on their mother's death.

_The firstborn,_ Sherlock thought hatefully. _The better son._

**

It had been sepsis.

Sepsis had killed Kerran Holmes.

It was undeniable; through a microscope, with various tests, the bacteria were undeniably present.

What had he expected to find?

Poison?

Mycroft?

God_damn_ Mycroft!

He stared blankly at the wall.

Slowly, he drew a syringe out of his pocket, and pulled the needle-guard off with his teeth.

He slid the point into a vein visible along his left wrist, and depressed the plunger, sighing quietly.

The drug cleared his mind, focused the hate so it could be used.

_Alright, Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought, shaking himself. _I'm going to burn you. Piece. By. Piece._

**

His mother had nightmares.

Every night, he'd come to her room, because she'd be screaming as if somebody was stabbing her.

Every night, he never slept, waiting for it to happen, researching, wandering in his 'mind-palace'.

Eventually, he gave up.

He'd sit with her.

When she went to bed, he'd sit with her, holding her hand.

Every.

Single.

Night.

He'd stay until dawn.

**

He had to go back to school.

But his mother was… dangerously close to catatonic.

She would sit.

And stare at the walls.

And so would he.

Sometimes, he'd play his violin for hours on end- until she went to bed. Sometimes, she'd fall asleep listening to him.

And because a deep instinct told him that Lydia Holmes was drawing close to following her husband into the void, he would play for hours, until dawn, because when she fell asleep listening to the violin…

…she'd fall asleep smiling.

So Sherlock Holmes- socially stunted little Sherlock Holmes, bullied, used and betrayed- gave hit utmost.

Lydia watched her son run himself into the ground, break his limits, and keep soldiering on.

There would be a crash, soon.

He'd take her down with him, if it was bad enough.

**

Three days before his scheduled return to University, his system finally gave.

Humiliatingly kneeling on the floor of the bathroom, Sherlock was again desperately sick, then pressed his face to the cold tile of the floor.

_Too far._

Weeks without sleep.

Scars.

Mycroft.

Blackhearted Mycroft.

Drugs.

Fifty milligrams… cocaine? Oxycodone? Morphine?

Morphine.

Lots of morphine. Oh, dear God, the pain.

The old broken bones ached like fire, and his stomach cramped.

Again, he was sick.

_Withdrawal._

_Need… Something._

When he managed to struggle back to his quarters, and injected himself with a full syringe of morphine, the pain- physical, and psychosomatic- was blotted out.

_There must be something… I swear, Mycroft, I'll get you one day for something…_

**

That night, as usual, he held her hand as she fell asleep.

It was a simple comfort.

_You're not alone._

When he woke from a dream that his hands were trapped in an iceberg, he looked down, just to check.

His hands were free.

But his mother's was ice cold.

**

The funeral was quick.

Mycroft had not chosen to attend their father's funeral. There was no reason he should have a chance to attend Lydia's.

Mycroft was the heir.

It was all Mycroft's.

_Goddamn it. You won, __**brother.**_****

So Sherlock Holmes stood before his parents' graves, as winter pulled at his coat and sent daggers into his skin.

Their older son, a selfish bastard who would stand by as his little brother was killed.

Their younger, a drug addict with a hateful obsession with the older.

"God help us all," Sherlock whispered, and turning his back, walked to the house.

They had been buried on the property that had belonged to the Holmes family for hundreds of years.

It was only right.

**

He stole the pictures.

The little ones; the happy ones. The ones of the four of them, before everything had gone so wrong.

Kerran, Lydia, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

A family.

Almost.

**

As he left, he turned, just for a moment, and took in the house where he'd grown up. He'd have to raise himself now. Mycroft- twenty-one by now- would have no interest in his younger brother.

He would not go to Mycroft for money. No matter what.

He had a right to fight for the estate, it turned out. He could fight Mycroft. He could challenge him in one little petty way.

The court date was scheduled for his eighteenth birthday.

He raised a hand, in farewell.

**

Sherlock was eighteen.

Mycroft, twenty-five.

Sherlock had lost the fight.

The estate, the name, the grounds, the land, the wealth, it was all Mycroft's.

Sherlock would get nothing.

He didn't know why he'd followed Mycroft, why he was full of rage that made him tremble and his eyes water.

Cold whipped at his poorly-made coat, the peasant's mark, as Mycroft, all silk and velvet, walked to the house that was his.

"I'll best you!" Sherlock screamed, making his brother stop dead in his tracks and the ghosts walking the halls listen. "I'll best you, I swear it- or die trying!"


	2. A Broken Man

A Broken Man

2

He had thought himself shattered after Afghanistan.

_You aren't haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. Welcome back._

Mycroft- damn Mycroft- had been right.

His limp was back, and worse than before.

Sherlock Holmes had saved his life.

Staring blankly at the ceiling of the small, run-down flat he'd fled to after realizing he was simply incapable of being in 221B, Baker Street, Captain John Watson closed his eyes briefly.

Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes.

Friend. Fraud. Companion. Liar.

He didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. If he even _began_ to entertain the very possibility… the few threads of sanity he had left would crumble.

_The best man… the most _human_ human being I have ever known._

Yes.

That was Sherlock Holmes.

And exhausted, he tried to fall back asleep.

With disastrous consequences.

Sand.

The sun was so _bright-_ it reflected off of everything, into his eyes. He couldn't see, couldn't _see-_ how couldn't they know that he couldn't _see?_

He was the doctor. Captain John Watson, MD. He patched them together when they fell apart.

But who repaired the repairman?

_Captain!_

An explosion. A shriek.

Blinding, fiery pain.

The sounds of his own screams woke him up.

_Psychosomatic limp. PTSD. Suicidal._

The nightmares had been better. So much better. When Sherlock… before, there hadn't been any.

And now, since… _it?_

Every.

Single.

Night.

It was either this: drug himself with the pills, sleep, and have the nightmares, or stay awake all night in _fear_ of the dreams.

He had survived Afghanistan, but the death of Sherlock Holmes had broken him.

_I swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs and successors and that I will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, her heirs and successors in person, crown and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, her heirs and successors and of the generals and officers set over me._

When he reached for his cane, John's hand trembled violently.

The soldier's promise. Why had it so suddenly gone through his mind?

Slowly, painfully, in an attempt to evade the question, John made his way towards the promise of morphine in the medicine cabinet.

**

Like John, Sherlock's first poison had been morphine.

He had been eleven years old, in that terrifying hospital, for six weeks.

The first time he'd woken up, there had been an instant of nothing- of dark, of simplicity, confusion, fear.

And then it had all flooded back.

His eyes had flown open as the pain screamed into his system, fire in his chest, arms, leg, _everywhere! _

He'd howled, and the sound hadn't been human.

And something in his chest had seized, cramped, viced on itself excruciatingly.

And everything had gone black again.

Not much later, he'd woken up again.

He didn't know anything of these surroundings.

_Use your brain, you stupid thing,_ a snide voice in the back of his head chided. _Mycroft's is better, but it's all you got, you worthless piece of shit._

White. Sterile.

Hospital.

Instantly, the location was fused with the emotion of fear in his mind. A hospital bed, strapped down, rails on both sides like prison guards: the essence of fear.

A few snippets of voices, far off in the distance. English. Accented.

Britain, somewhere.

His brain was fuzzy, but vaguely, the light glinted off of the needle jabbed into the back of his hand, catching his eye.

He followed the tube- there were other tubes like it, he realized, but this one was most interesting- up to the clear bag of I.V. fluid dangling from… whatever you called those things.

Bliss.

The drug- morphine, it said on the bag- had taken away the pain.

Thank God.

**

Without the drug, for the first while, the pain would quickly overwhelm his system and cause his heart to seize.

So, he was quickly made… _dependent._

When they removed the needle, it was like waking up- to a world of physical pain, and to a deep, nagging sense of an incomprehensible wound in his heart: betrayal.

Sherlock did not want to wake up. Not yet. Not when he'd barely started to explore that heart-wound from his mind, safely hidden from the pain of it: there was no space or energy left for the physical.

He'd had excellent senses, but his eyesight was badly damaged- along with his hearing.

Most pitied him.

_Poor boy._

What happened to him?

He never speaks. Only stares. Watches.

_Freak._

Indeed, after that one scream, Sherlock had not spoken a word.

His parents had been delayed by various things that blocked off the routes of transportation from rural Britain to wherever _this_ was. He hadn't heard from them.

Or Mycroft.

Mycroft, who would have watched his brother die if somebody else hadn't been brave enough to pull those fiends off of him.

Mycroft, who had broken him.

The first night, he didn't sleep.

He wept.

Sherlock Holmes turned away from the world, pressed his face into his pillow, and cried.

**

He made it five hours, forty-eight minutes, and seven seconds without morphine.

He waited, forever, for the lights to go out.

The instant they did, he sprang out of bed, waited as the world spun, holding on to the bedrail.

If he'd tried during the day, his _hampered senses_ would have resulted in instant capture.

Give nighttime, and a corridor bed instead of a room…

He walked, barefoot, down the moonlit isles, listening for anything, watching even though his sight was unfocused and blurred.

He knew where to go, and quickly picking the lock on the door, slipped into the storage room.

He had interest in only one syringe, and found it quickly, grabbing it, yanking off the needle-cover with his teeth (spitting it out without a second thought), and shoving the point into the vein on the back of his hand, pressed the plunger as he'd watched the doctors do.

Relief. His eyes flicked back briefly in his skull as the ecstatic feeling raced up his arm, spread from his heart to the rest of his body. Relief was magnificent, pure and spectacular.

He dropped the syringe, mind dulled like his senses by the drug, and didn't bother to lock the door on his way out.

With the fingerprints, the DNA evidence off the needle and cap, not to mention the security cameras, the very next morning, they confronted him with it.

Worst of all, his parents arrived that very day.

**

Today was another of those days.

John walked down the now-familiar path of the graveyard, barely noting the sharp, icy bite of the air, the nip of approaching winter.

Unwittingly, he was following- in the grand scheme of things- in the footsteps of the man whose gravestone stood before him, footsteps laid twenty years ago.

_Sherlock Holmes_

The inscription was as simple as they came.

"Not much to say," John murmured, easily dropping to a knee, his limp forgotten. "Nothing much has happened- actually, nothing ever happens. Nothing ever happens to me. It was all you, Sherlock- damn it all, it was you. Cut out that, and there's nothing left of me."

He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Months had passed, and pain was only festering.

John, as a doctor, was supposed to patch men together when they fell apart.

Sherlock, as a consulting detective, was supposed to see through everything in an instant.

And here, it had been a reversal.

Sherlock had healed John.

John had shown Sherlock a deeper side of himself that neither of them- hell, nobody- had known existed.

_I need you, Sherlock. I'd do it all again- the bomb, the gunfights, the bloody body parts in the fridge- I'd do it all again if it meant having you back._


	3. Acid

Acid

3

He felt like a burn victim.

Burn victims looked different after their attacks: sometimes they were unrecognizable. They were different people afterwards, unable to relate properly to those they'd been close to for a while.

No.

The attack- as Sherlock called it in his mind, as a _beating_ was what his parents delivered in their drunken rages, but there, it was justified, and here, it had been no more than _because I can-_ had changed him.

Before, he had been a curious, fairly outgoing boy to those who knew him; he'd loved to explore, to find new things.

And above all else, to talk about it. To Mycroft- that was the best of all, when Mycroft would listen to him!- or his parents, or to anybody who cared enough to listen. But secretly, his very favorite thing, before, had been to find something new, something Mycroft hadn't found before.

Before Mycroft had become distanced from his brother, they would hide somewhere and talk- just talk- until the wee hours of the morning.

About anything. Everything. About the things they noticed, how clever they were, what Mycroft had seen that Sherlock hadn't, what Sherlock had found on his adventures Mycroft hadn't heard of.

Those hours were heavenly.

_Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought. _The traitor._

An acid-throwing victim was at the mercy of their aggressor; a typical fire burn could be an accident. Acid clawed into your flesh, while fire only licked it. Acid burrowed deep and caused hurts far beyond the surface.

Such as this.

_Mycroft._

_Why?_

The attack was much more like an acid-throwing assault, Sherlock concluded. The cuts in his skin and the breaks in his bones would fade.

Acid, however, left deeper scars than flame. The survivors were never recognizable.

**

_Man down! Man down! Captain Watson, can you hear me?_

Flashbacks didn't need sleep to haunt the mind.

John paused, shuddered once, and checked his flanks.

_Take another step. And another, and another, and another- wait not here because that patch of sidewalk looks weird- there, there, but not here, over there, but avoid that spot-_

His mind had flicked back to the mode it had been in in Afghanistan, trying to evade IEDs.

But this was central London, for Christ's sake…

His life was a string of dull Christmas lights, the brighter parts signifying a hit, the overlooked wire between the points indicating the listless life he lived.

_Nothing ever happens to Captain John. H. Watson, MD, _John thought, _because I am nothing._

**

Sherlock had been nine; Mycroft, sixteen.

Summer vacation; a truly unpredictable time.

In one of the many living rooms, Mycroft was comfortably situated on the couch across from the fireplace (with the mandatory table in front of it) while, to the front and right [roughly 1.8 meters to the front and right] Sherlock had his legs hooked over the backrest of an enormous, well-cushioned chair, his head hanging off the seat, hair oddly- in Mycroft's eyes- reaching for the floor, a book raised over his head, held in both hands.

As Sherlock's eyebrows twitched in concentration (upside-down was one of his favorite reading positions, encouraging blood flow to the brain- it made perfect sense to Mycroft) his ears were gradually turning darker shades of pink.

_Predicting change of position in six… five… four… three… two… one…_

Suddenly, Sherlock flipped himself over, landing loudly on the floor.

"Nowhere near your record," Mycroft commented, returning his attentions to his own book.

"Bored," Sherlock moaned.

Mycroft's steel-grey eyes flicked up to meet his brother's, which, randomly, changed from blue to green to grey and back again. "Quite."

"See here," Sherlock quipped, changing the subject (Mycroft had expected it). "If a man wears a black suit with velvet trim, matching black pants, a top-hat, wears cliché glasses and carries a cane with a hitch in the stride of his left leg, what would you say about him?"

"An older man- sixties, at a guess. Fond of retro, most likely having strong ties to a period in the thirties or forties. Perhaps mentally damaged, unable to let go of something that happened at that time. A lover? Wife unlikely, given his age. The hitch of stride on the left- psychosomatic or genuine?"

"Genuine. Long, thin fingers, angular cheekbones, bright blue eyes, short hair. His knuckles always go white when he grabs something."

"Mental issues!" Mycroft cried out, delighted. "A desperate claim for control, perhaps? A shaky stride? Hesitant? Does he check his flanks often?"

"Every five minutes. Exactly."

"Interesting. What about his posture- stiff? Loose? His gait. Was he military? Being a member of the Royal Guard would explain the top-hat, as the bearskin they wear accustoms one to the weight."

"Loose, rolling gait. Calculated. Most likely trained."

"Special operations."

"Yes."

"So a man, sixties, fond of retro, mentally damaged, seeking control. Spec ops, with a possible stint in the Royal Guard. Paranoid. Thin?"

"Very much so," Sherlock volunteered eagerly. "One would think him a ghost- walking silently, and nearly transparent."

"An assassin. Undercover as a typical British civilian."

Sherlock grinned. "Age can easily be faked, yes?"

"Ridiculously easily," Mycroft agreed. "A simple disguise can add twenty years, a good one forty."

Entranced, from his position on the floor, Sherlock rested his chin on his fists, waiting for more.

"It would be child's play for a civilian to walk unseen," Mycroft murmured. "What about his speech?"

"Visibly calculated. Accented, British- too perfectly. Stiff."

"Eliminates an American."

"Yes. From his appearance, I would personally favor German."

Mycroft weighed that in his mind. "Is he unkind to the various adjectives of the English language?"

"You can hear them screaming."

Mycroft laughed. "German, then. So a German assassin, deep undercover in Britain… _why?"_

"Sawhill Desperée."

"Come now," Mycroft said, laughing again. "How would a simple play attract a German assassin?"

"The British secretary of defense is due to be at the premiere of it."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up. "Most interesting."

"Very interesting," Sherlock agreed, returning to his book.

It took a few minutes, but-

"Bored," Sherlock muttered again.

"Go snipe hunting, then," Mycroft snipped, trying to read.

Sherlock sighed, gathered himself off of the floor, and walked out of the room- leaving his book on the floor.

Typical Sherlock.

Mycroft wondered, vaguely, what his younger brother would be doing, as a snipe hunt- a joking metaphor for "attempt the impossible", as a snipe was a small, quick bird nearly impossible to see, much less catch- was out of the question.

_Eliminate all that is impossible. Whatever remains, however improbable, must be true._

The possibilities were myriad- almost infinite- so that entertained him for a while, until he grew tired of it and returned his attention to his book.

Four hours later, Sherlock reentered dramatically, throwing the doors open, and with a flick of his wrist, tossed something on the table.

Mycroft looked at it.

Then at Sherlock.

"How did you kill it?"

Sherlock looked like a puppy that hoped for praise. "With a rock. I threw a rock at it."

Mycroft tilted his head, again looking at the body of the snipe. There was so little out of place on the corpse that he half expected it to spring up and run away.

"Well done, Sherlock," he said finally, looking back to his book.

Sherlock's grin was genuine, and blinding.


	4. Helpless

Helpless

4

Mother was gone.

His mother was gone, Sherlock realized, a touch of fear clawing up his throat, spiking his breathing. His mother was gone. When both parents were present, there was nothing to fear. They balanced each other out.

When his father left, Lydia might- when drunk- slap him. Or give him a well-deserved knuckle-snap. Maybe break one of his fingers- by accident.

She would apologize. Sincerely.

And he'd forgive her.

Only six years old, and Sherlock knew fear: his father, a bottle of whiskey, and the lack of his mother's presence.

Mycroft was hiding.

And he'd done something wrong.

"You stupid little rat!" Furious, lividly furious, so drunk that the stench of alcohol on him made Sherlock bite back a cough as his father pinned him to the wall, Kerran bared his teeth. "Sneaking, spying, you stupid thing. Why do you have to keep _looking?_ Why must you see _everything?"_

Held off the floor by his throat, Sherlock found it hard to reply.

"Maybe I should just make you blind. You and your stupid questions, boy- nosing into things you shouldn't be. Why can't you just fucking stay _still?"_

Violence flashed in his father's eyes, and Sherlock clawed desperately at the hand that was cutting off his air.

_I can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't… breathe._

Kerran turned suddenly, stalking away, letting Sherlock fall painfully to the floor.

As the boy coughed, his father clenched his hands into fists, causing a horrible surge of that repressed fear.

His father would break bones- just his fingers, so far. Fingers were easy to hide.

"You're so damn _weak,"_ his father hissed. "I'll just have to thrash it out of you."

Before Sherlock could even process those words, the figure looming over him caused him to shy away, out of fear.

When Kerran seized his right arm, one hand at the wrist, the other at his elbow, fear turned, instantly, to gut-dropping terror.

And when he screamed, Mycroft, three floors above, cringed.

*

Sherlock fled.

He ran, the instant his father turned his back.

And locked himself away from the world.

Eventually, the sounds of quiet, agonized weeping- almost like a dying animal- that had slowly been chipping at his heart finally broke Mycroft.

He stood, and walked through the corridors, down the stairs, and to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock, his younger brother, the least favorite, the one who got abused for doing nothing when Mycroft could do anything and get away without so much as an unkind word…

Gently, the elder Holmes tapped a finger on the door.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

The only response was that quiet, soul-marking weeping.

With a strange feeling, Mycroft picked the lock and let himself in.

"Sherlock?" he repeated softly, looking for his brother and finding him curled into a tight ball beside his bed.

His right arm, however, was held out at an odd angle- unnatural, in fact…

Oh God.

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, advancing and crouching in front of his younger brother.

For just a second, those piercing eyes- light blue, at the instant, with hints of green- appeared, red and pained. Then they disappeared again.

Carefully- with more care that he'd ever exerted in his thirteen-year life span- Mycroft touched his fingers to the underside of Sherlock's right forearm, sending a subtle message.

"May I?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still pressed into his knees, his left arm wrapped around his face.

He watched as Mycroft delicately pushed back his sleeve, saw the flash of- regret? Sympathetic pain? Misery?- in his eyes as the livid bruising was exposed.

When those fingertips brushed along his skin, so lightly it was like a breath, Sherlock shuddered.

Dislocated elbow, Mycroft realized, pain spiking into his heart. A crack in the bone of the forearm running from elbow to wrist, with possibly some bones in the wrist shattered as well, and God only knew what muscle, tendon and nerve damage.

The bone had to be set, though, and they both knew it.

Mycroft met his brother's eyes.

"This is going to hurt."

Sherlock nodded, almost imperceptibly, again.

And when it was done- when Sherlock's sharp yelps of pain had ripped into that soft part of his heart over and over and over until it was unrecognizable, Mycroft took his younger brother into his arms, and held him, just for now, in a gentle embrace.

As Sherlock- helpless, tiny Sherlock- cried into his chest, he was the younger boy's only safe port from the storm of the world.

[Author's note: feel free to have a sniffle here, as the author herself was entitled to feel shaky.]

**

It was a different nightmare- different, but all too familiar.

_"Oh, God, no."_

Sherlock, standing alone, stark against the sky, on the edge of the rooftop.

Sherlock, falling.

John, helpless.

_"I'm his friend… his friend… let me through… I'm a doctor…"_

His vision blurry from that bicyclist for whom no circle of hell would suffice, he couldn't feel a pulse. He could only feel his hands shaking.

They'd pulled him away, taken Sherlock away on a stretcher.

So fast. So fast.

He'd never seen Sherlock again.

And inside, watching his friend get whisked inside that building, he'd been screaming that name in his head.

_Sherlock!_

He'd felt hollow.

He still felt empty.

And screaming Sherlock's name, he woke with a start.

_Another day._

_Get up._

Get dressed.

At least, John thought, he still had a job. And he was on today.

He'd been granted a transfer to Emergency, which was like switching heroin with marijuana. It didn't come close to the thrill of living with Sherlock, not nearly.

**

Mycroft had known.

He'd seen the signs of pain in Sherlock: the way his face would pale slightly when he curled his fingers sometimes, the way he'd sometimes keep them almost constantly keep them in his pockets- and spontaneously break the habit only to pick it up again.

It only took him five seconds- alright, seven point three- to hook the switch of habits and pain to the periods where Lydia was gone.

Their father, given alcohol, was abusing Sherlock.

And the sounds Sherlock made after, after the furious voice stopped echoing, when he'd retreated to his room- Sherlock, always so small and defenseless- the quiet, broken keening tormented him.

There was one thing.

If it had been both of them, it would have been bearable. It would have been survivable, breathable, easier.

But it was only Sherlock.

Mycroft was never yelled at, much less abused. He was practically a god. He could get away with anything.

And so, that night when Sherlock's arm was shattered, the night when his brother's world was reshaping under his feet, Mycroft dared to defy his parents.

When Sherlock had cried himself to sleep, Mycroft carefully gathered him into his arms, carried him to his own room, and gave his brother his bed.

He had a well-cushioned chair, Mycroft thought as he locked and bolted the door, that given a blanket, would make a fitting nest for him.

Sherlock, for a bit, needed some semblance of safety, of a sanctuary.

**


	5. The Greatest Fears

The Greatest Fears

5

If you'd asked him what his greatest fear was, as a child, before everything had gone so horribly wrong, he would have paused, and thought about it.

From the age of six to the age of eleven?

Hmm.

Fear of a harsh voice. Fear of the fist. Fear of the smell of alcohol.

Kerran had started abusing him without Lydia being out of the house- and worse if Sherlock didn't hide his wounds.

The arm was the worst.

Instinct: hold it out slightly, at an awkward position, one clearly marking the presence of the injury. Such a way would come quite close to eradicating pain.

Only in private, only alone or with Mycroft, was he allowed to do so.

So he used a broken arm, slept with ice on it to keep swelling nonexistent. He forced down food when he was in too much pain to eat, kept his voice light and lively the way it had been when he was innocent. He made broken fingers bend, and tried to minimalize bruises on his face. When bruises and bones escalated to blood, he figured out various ways to keep them from bleeding- at his own cost.

Sherlock was in a living hell.

His greatest fear, though?

He would have had to think about that, sometimes pondered it when he was either alone, or Mycroft gave him the gift of peaceful silence.

"What is it that you fear most, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked one of those quiet nights where he'd fled to his brother's haven. Lydia had no idea- neither did Kerran.

Mycroft, again reading a book while Sherlock stared at the wall, an icepack strapped to his arm while it was blissfully held at an angle tough on his shoulder (considering the rest of him was curled into a tight ball again), slowly thought about it.

_You. What's happening to you. I'm afraid for you, Sherlock._

"A cage," Mycroft murmured. "A cage with bars, so you can see the outside world, watch it dance without you. Life goes on, and you'd have to know it, but nobody would see you. You wouldn't exist."

That, also, was a very close second.

And as he sensed that Sherlock needed to say something, he waited.

"What about you?"

Sherlock bit his lip, looked out the window at the retreating sunlight, and back at his brother.

_Once, you would've been irritated. But your eyebrows aren't drawn together, so you aren't. Thank you, Mycroft. I owe you for this._

And it clicked.

He wouldn't have known if Mycroft was irritated or not without-

"Losing my eyesight," Sherlock confided. "Without it, we're nothing, aren't we? You and I, we see everything and understand it- but how can we understand if we are _incapable_ of sight?"

That, in thirteen entire years, was something that had not occurred to Mycroft in the slightest. He froze, going stone-still, as the thought of that raced through his head.

To live without sight, to either Sherlock or Mycroft, was to live without breathing. To live without sight was to have your brain stripped from you, to have what made you different, unique, flayed away.

Without sight… they'd be _ordinary._

They would be nobody- nothing.

**

Self-fulfilling prophecies.

Sherlock learned to hate them.

So it was that the very day after he'd revealed that bit of himself to Mycroft, his father seized him by the throat and lifted him off his feet.

He'd gone through this before.

Momentum, moving through space, limp as a ragdoll…

…_crack._

Skull + wood paneling = alarming sound.

He expected to fall limply to the floor as his father stalked away, to have controls of his limbs pass briefly, and have his vision flicker.

His sight went dark.

And didn't come back.

He thought, for a minute, he'd been knocked out: had he hit the wall harder than he'd thought? It had hardly seemed that bad.

And how could he still feel himself, think clearly if he was unconscious?

Maybe his eyes were just closed, and he couldn't feel it for some reason- anything, anything but that horrible terror.

Darkness.

Alone. In. The. Dark.

There was nothing in the world more horrifying as when he reached up and touched the moist surface of his eyes, the contact with his fingers stinging lightly in confirmation.

_Can't see. It's so dark. Oh, God, it's so goddamn dark-_

Somehow, Sherlock managed to gather his feet, relying heavily on his sense of place and memory of the room.

_Trace your fingers along the wall- there. The dent. Split off at a forty-five degree angle, should hit the doorway._

_Stairs, on left._

Up. Raise foot to four inches above other ankle, to be safe. Twenty-eight steps. Broad. Even. Wooden, uncarpeted. God, am I always this loud?

On left: my room. Ahead, beyond more stairs: Mycroft.

Which?

He blinked involuntarily, trying to see.

_Mycroft has a deadbolt. I don't._

_Up the stairs…_

_There- dent in the wall, on left. Mark point. Turn, because the stairs just keep going, little landings branching into corridors, but the one with the dent shaped like a stab mark is Mycroft's. It's been painted over, so it's old. Wonder how old? A decade? A century? More?_

First door on the left. Why is everything on the left?

There was a signal, a code, to signify his presence. However, it required tapping on a specific spot on a specific panel of the door.

_Left, close to center ridge, up. Up. Too far? Feels wrong- arm position out of proportion with chest. Down. Left. Too close to center ridge. Wrist twisting incorrectly- adjust._

_The bones hurt. Like fire. Did I break it again slamming against that wall?_

My fault.

Cautiously, Sherlock felt for the doorknob with his elbow, trying to judge proportion.

_Two and a half feet up, sixteen inches to the left._

He paced out the distance with his fingertips.

_Tik-tik-tik, tik-tik, tiktiktik._

_Wake up, Mycroft. Please._

The deadbolt scraped as it was drawn back; the door creaked just a little, letting Sherlock know that Mycroft was peering at him.

He'd done it wrong, but tried to meet his brother's eyes based on the sound of his breathing.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked uncertainly, unnerved by how dilated the younger boy's eyes were, the blackness of the pupil almost blotting out the iris.

_Not shock- pupils would be pinprick. He's not looking into my eyes quite dead-on: just slightly off. Disoriented, hand pressed against the wall, signal not given quite right-_

Goddamn it. You can't see, can you, Sherlock?

Something twisted in his gut. Sherlock, at that very moment, was living his greatest fear.

Supportively, because he was afraid that his brother would walk into something- he couldn't know the room well enough yet to navigate it blind- Mycroft laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, guiding him in.

"How?" Mycroft whispered, drawing the bolt.

Sherlock brushed his fingers along the back of his head. When he withdrew them, they were red.

"I think you can figure it out."

**

John Watson's greatest fear?

Post-Afghanistan, but before _it…_ his greatest fear?

Losing Sherlock.

_You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero._

_But you were my hero. You saved me, when nobody else cared. When nobody else would save me, you did._

I never even began to pay you back.

I owe you so much, Sherlock.

And now?

John Watson feared nothing.

If a psychopath (his lips almost, _almost_ twitched- not a high-functioning sociopath, but a real psychopath) jumped into his path and pointed a gun at him, he'd probably bless his soul for the occurrence before tackling him to the ground. Possibly engaging in a fistfight.

Because there was honestly nothing to live for.

_John Watson no longer exists. Nobody cares about him anymore. Perhaps he should just die._


	6. Figure Something Out, You Idiot

Figure Something Out, You Idiot

6

While the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock was sometimes strained, the two had a sense for each other.

Or at least, the older one did.

Sherlock had instantly, upon entered the room, floated towards a chair like a meteor drawn to a larger celestial entity. He'd collapsed into it, curled into a small ball, and said nothing.

For once, unsure of what to do with himself, Mycroft hovered uncertainly, then slowly walked to his bed.

He debated turning on a light, and then realized that it wouldn't make much difference to Sherlock anyway, most likely.

But he was wrong: when he flicked on the bedside lamp, Sherlock instantly looked towards the source of the glow.

"Coming back yet?" Mycroft queried.

Sherlock squinted. "No. Skin felt warmer."

Feeling incredibly awkward, Mycroft proceeded to pretend to bury himself in a book.

Or he tried, at least: he skimmed at his normal rate, turned the pages at the interval Sherlock was accustomed to. However, those steel-grey eyes would flick to the page, then return to his younger brother.

Frustrated, he flicked off the light- Sherlock twitched as the slight warmth vanished- and putting the book back on the nightstand, turned onto his other side and tried to sleep.

Even in a dark room, even with his back turned, Mycroft could sense his sibling's emotions.

The raggedness of his breathing, the quiet whimpers that showed in the breath.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, "I can literally feel you having a psychological meltdown."

Sherlock's response was to stop breathing entirely, but as Mycroft raised his head to look at him, the violent shudders racking his (small) frame gave it away.

"I don't blame you."

His breath released in an explosive shudder, and Sherlock whimpered quietly.

Eyes open, eyes closed- the moonlight was filtering through the window, he could _feel_ it, but he couldn't see it.

Ignoring pain, he crossed his arms over his knees and pressed his face into them.

Mycroft buried his face in his hands.

_What the bloody hell do I do next?_

_Figure something out, you idiot,_ a voice in the back of his mind commented.

_Obviously._

_Option one. Do nothing._

_Scratch that. Delete option one._

_Option two, AKA the new option one. Do something. Like…_

_Speech._

Blindness does not affect hearing; on the contrary, in theory, it could be like having your eyes closed.

_Alright._

So… mental files… 'conversations to have with temporarily/permanently blind younger brother'.

Empty.

…Awkward silence.

The only things to talk about were things that had been seen. Sherlock would no longer be able to reciprocate.

What was the standard social etiquette for speaking to your temporarily/permanently blind younger brother (by seven years, for Christ's sake) who was having a mental breakdown?

"PT. Forty-seven."

It took Sherlock a moment to catch up with the massive non sequitur, but he got there.

_Periodic table of elements._

Forty-seven.

"Silver. Latin, _argentum."_

"Seventy-four."

"Tungsten. Swedish, _heavy stone."_

_Your memory's still intact, Sherlock, and thank God for that._ "Thirty-three."

Sherlock quickly lifted his head. "Arsenic. A delightfully fickle and common poison, which when skillfully used, can be said to have already been present, and removes the implication of murder. Postmortem in such a death will reveal brick-red mucosa, owing to severe hemorrhage."

Mycroft watched his eyes flick from left to right. "Notably responsible for the deaths of King George III, and King Faisal the First of Iraq."

Vaguely, Sherlock remembered mentally marking a spot of something interesting for further review in the book where he'd read that, but hadn't had a chance to revisit. He'd lamented the fact to Mycroft, and had in fact intended to go to the library down below to check-

-when his father had found him.

There wouldn't be any more books to read, nothing that could be gained from the beauty of a written word when your world was black.

He'd done something to deserve this. The fact that he didn't see it only proved that he was stupid, and deserved it even more.

With a choked sound, Sherlock hid his face again.

Maybe he could just hide his eyes from everyone somehow, so that nobody would notice how he wouldn't ever look at things quite right again. Sunglasses? He'd read about other blind people wearing a pair for the purpose.

No more books; no more exploring. Life without sight.

Fact.

The world was dark. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. Touch, sound, smell. That was all he had.

"I'm walking blind, Mycroft. And we both know that I'm nothing, nobody without my eyes."

**

To John Watson, the world was equally dark.

Not literally, of course; but he was merely a puppet, going through the actions of life without putting anything into them.

There was nothing left to give. Everything left over, that flame inside his soul, had been quenched by the dull crunching sound of Sherlock's bones as he hit the pavement.

Blood on the pavement.

Haunted, John pulled the covers over his head. Maybe he'd just suffocate on his own carbon dioxide in his sleep, but he doubted he'd be that lucky.

**

"Are you awake?"

Sherlock twitched. "Yes."

Maybe if he tried hard enough, he'd see. Maybe he was so afraid of being blind, he'd forced himself into it. Fear was powerful. Fear could make men do things that they wouldn't normally do. Maybe it was just fear, maybe he wasn't really blind, maybe he was just driving himself insane because he was so damn stupid he couldn't figure out why he deserved this because he _must-have-done-something-wrong-_

"Stop," Mycroft ordered.

Sherlock hunched his shoulders.

"It isn't your fault."

"Yes, it is."

"Stop thinking that way!" Mycroft glared in the moonlight, even though Sherlock wouldn't benefit- but the younger boy flinched anyway. "It isn't your fault! You didn't do a damn thing to deserve this!"

"There has to be something." Sherlock quivered with a suppressed storm of emotion. "It's the basis of who we are, Mycroft: _everything has a reason!_ It's not an accident when a man has a certain type of dirt on his shoes, or a woman wears her glasses different than the next, or when a man beats his son so badly the boy can't see-"

_"Stop."_

Sherlock shuddered.

"There has to be a reason," the younger boy whispered. "There's always a reason. I'm just too stupid to get it."

"Sherlock." Mycroft said his brother's name quietly, but in a way that instantly commanded the other's full attention. "He's wrong."

"But-"

_"He's wrong."_ Mycroft repeated it firmly. "I'll be damned if you're not getting as smart as me."

Sherlock was silent.

"You're not stupid, Sherlock Holmes," the elder said, making the younger jump when Mycroft's fingers touched his arm. "Foolish, occasionally- but brilliant as a flame, sharp as a sword. Don't you _dare_ believe a word he says."

There was a moment.

_"Vos realiter non faciunt cogitare ipse est iure?"_

Mycroft smiled. It was Latin, a code they used occasionally.

_You really don't think he's right?_

He brushed his hand over Sherlock's hair.

_"Quidni non."_

_Of course not._


	7. Not Quite Nothing

I'd like to thank everybody who views this, and the people who review even more. Spanning twenty-two countries between 214 people (at the time of writing this: 2:45 P.M, Central Standard Time, 9/26/12) we're all bonded by this twisted, weird love of Sherlock. And Benedict Cumberbatch. *fangirl squee*

Love all of you guys- can't figure out why you like me so much. Is it something in the pixels?

Not Quite Nothing

7

Sometime, during the night, thanks to Mycroft's reassurances, Sherlock fell asleep.

When he woke up, it took him a second to realize it was because the rising sun was in his face.

Maybe it was just his internal clock signaling dawn, and he was imagining the subtle glow. It took him a moment to gather the courage to open his eyes.

It was still slightly fuzzy, but blinking cleared it up. The sun's rays peering over the distant hills, the sky brilliant orange and pink.

Not quite in the dark, Sherlock grinned.

"Mycroft."

The other had his back turned, had been sleeping peacefully. "Hmm?"

"I can see."

As Sherlock stood and made for the door, Mycroft smiled to himself.

"Sherlock?"

His hand on the knob, Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Remember. They can take your senses, but they can't take your mind."

Something sparkled in those eyes, currently light, unearthly green in the fledgling dawn.

"You're right," Sherlock murmured. "They can't take my mind. They can't truly make us nothing."

Something that couldn't quite be expressed in words passed between the two brothers.

"Good morning, Mycroft," Sherlock said softly, easing the door so it wouldn't creak.

"Good morning, Sherlock," Mycroft replied.

**

For the first time in weeks, it was a peaceful dream.

It was quiet simplicity.

Nested happily in his favorite armchair, the Union Jack pillow at just the right spot on his back, for just a precious few moments, John was back in Baker Street.

Before _it._

Sherlock stood before the window, delicately playing a tune on his violin, watching the city go by.

That was all.

A quiet moment with Sherlock Holmes.

And for some reason, that dream was more powerful than the nightmares.

_How much morphine does it take to kill a man?_

_Study of a small group of heavy addicts- several years, four times daily doses of 75 milligrams. High resistance. Mine is fairly low, but there._

_Severe addicts can take 200mg a day, having only moderate effects._

_300mg? Three hundred-milligram syringes?_

John stared at the ceiling. His lips curved.

_That sounds about right._

And now, just to steal them from work, put his affairs in order, and take care of it.

**

When Mycroft woke up again, he knew, instantly, by the lack of the soft sounds of his brother through the floor, that Sherlock was not in the room.

Sometimes, Sherlock would snore quietly. Almost always he'd wiggle slightly, making the bed creak.

Or the small microphone he'd placed in the room and wired to his own would pick up the sound of his breathing.

_Gone out for a walk on the moor, brother?_

Without any hesitation, Mycroft went downstairs, pulled on his boots, and followed.

Sherlock had his preferred paths, his favorite haunts, marked by subtle trails that were easily mistaken for a deer's.

Until you considered that at night, if you stared out the window the deer didn't come often enough out of the woods to make those paths.

Looking at Sherlock's tracks in the fairly-soft dirt (very clear: he was _intentionally_ leaving Mycroft a trail), judging from his stride, it was easy to figure out his mood.

_Even, fairly slow gait. Mood calm, relaxed- just seeking to contemplate? If you'd wanted to be alone, you'd have concealed your steps. So you don't want to be alone. Trying to say that you don't really need companionship, either, or you would have stayed with me until morning._

You want to talk, don't want to be heard, and want to convey your intentions with a little postscript of "unless you've got better things to do".

Interesting.

Or do you just want someone to watch the sunrise with?

So he followed the trail, and smiled to himself when he noticed a small deformity in a stump on the edge of the woods.

He picked out the bit of paper wedged in a new hole.

_Seventh Spire. Come only if convenient._

-S

This time, Mycroft grinned.

Seventh Spire was their name for the seventh ancient stone pillar they'd found that thrust itself out of the earth like a jagged fang. It was covered in ancient calligraphy and hieroglyphics, giving the brothers something that could be analyzed for hours.

It also had a brilliant view of the horizon.

**

When he arrived, just in time for the show, Mycroft walked up the hill that led to the pillar.

Sherlock, on the other side, never flinched as Mycroft pulled even with him.

The elder raised an eyebrow.

Without looking at him, the younger shook his head.

"Do you ever feel… _small?"_

Mycroft considered, biting the corner of his mouth the way he did when he was thinking seriously, a habit Sherlock had picked up from him.

"How so?"

"Like…" Sherlock, who still hadn't so much as glanced at his brother, gestured with a sweep of his hand towards the rolling hills of the moor and the woods on the left. "This has been here longer than we have, and it'll be here after we leave. Are we really here, Mycroft? Does it matter what we do? Are we more than fleeting thoughts on the wind?"

"Yes."

Mycroft's answer, so utterly absolute, drew Sherlock's eyes to his face.

"Say a man kills a soldier in a war. That soldier, being dead, does not go on to kill another man- another man who, if the first had not been killed, would be dead in his place. If the second was dead, he would not meet a lover after the war, nor would she bear his children."

Mycroft met his brother's eyes. "Us, Sherlock."

"And say that the first dead man was a hunter," he continued. "Say that the stag he would have killed, but did not, being dead, chooses to rub the soft bark off of a tree with his antlers. The tree, however, is a specific type that a specific type of insect has to have to survive, and is the only one for miles. Without the soft bark, the insects die. And without the insects she was specialized to eat, a bird starves to death. But the death of the first man prevented the escalation of a major war, and a major war requires supplies. The lack of need for those supplies allowed several more forests to continue to exist."

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, Sherlock also bit the corner of his lip.

"Consequences are very far-reaching, Sherlock. You just can never know who you touch. Even the smallest can make a difference, and never is there anything that is nothing."

**

Well, Mycroft, aren't you a philosopher.

If somebody can come up with a war that Kerran could be a veteran of, they get a cookie. As I seriously can't quite put together what Sherlock's age is, or what my timeframes are, whoever points out a significant war deal in, ah…. The sixties, fifties maybe, and perhaps a basic time frame- maybe just a _hey Sherlock is X age during the series filming in 2009/10_ deal, then they would also get a snippet from a future chapter of their choice.

Perhaps if I dangle a teaser about Sherlock's drug-addict past/future? Or maybe when Sherlock sees the scar on John's shoulder for the first time, where he was shot?

Reader choice. Suggestions welcome, reviews strongly encourage- they inspire me.


	8. Touchstone

Touchstone

8

In public- or namely, outside of private, of the sanctum of a room with only two kindred souls inside- they pretended indifference.

In fact, they pretended to nearly loathe each other; Mycroft as the merciless tyrant, Sherlock as the underling.

And behind closed doors, they laughed. They reveled in their own glory, for deceiving the world. Because everyone believed Mycroft hated his younger brother; because everyone believed Sherlock nursed a secret spite for his.

In private, they were inseparable. They'd talk about everything and nothing until a primal hour of the morning.

In private, they could meet each other's eyes. Sherlock would laugh. Mycroft would grin.

But in public, their one, sole sign of a hidden act went unnoticed.

Whenever Sherlock and Mycroft passed by each other, they both would draw slightly together, and with a quick flick of the wrist, briefly connect by a simple touch of all five fingertips.

It was a gesture incredibly simple, incredibly easy to not notice, as they were careful to only show it when nobody was looking.

Its meaning was so utterly complex, it would have taken a million words to explain. Trust. Loyalty. Affection. Pride. Reassurance. Question. Answer. A thousand thoughts could race across that connection, a thousand impulses, far too many things to count.

Basically, it was a signal.

_I've got your back._

A touchstone, so incredibly invaluable in both their worlds, was treasured like nothing else. No physical treasure could compare.

_You still there?_

_Yep._

Whenever Sherlock would begin to doubt himself, he'd try to seek that contact.

The connection was wordless. _There's nothing to fear. Remember what I told you._

They hadn't even verbally spoken of it, ever- it was just that spontaneously, as Mycroft had passed within arm's length, Sherlock's hand had involuntarily twitched.

And with the same urge, Mycroft had reached, and touched his brother's fingers.

And so the touchstone was created.

**

Mycroft worried.

His ability to watch over his brother was severely hampered at the University. There, they were never, ever alone. The act had to be played constantly, a delicate dance between fire and ice.

_You're on your own, Sherlock. _

By God, that was really fucking coldhearted.

But because he left a day earlier than his brother, Mycroft got the last word. He might have been leaving Sherlock to face a day alone without a port in which to weather the storm.

But he'd be _damned_ if he'd leave the younger boy without a rope to anchor with.

Without escape, weathering was the only option.

And so, on the day he'd been dreading for weeks, Sherlock awoke to a small box on his nightstand.

_What…?_

He sat up, quickly, and lifting the lid off of the box, plucked the small square of paper out.

_You know why._

-M

Under the note was a mobile phone.

_Postscript: Good luck._

**

It was ridiculously simple.

Being a doctor, John had easy access to morphine. As soon as he received a patient- a burn victim, how ironic- that needed painkillers, he slipped off to the storage room.

The victim needed a seventy-five milliliter syringe to take the edge off her pain. It was easily acquired.

He snatched three hundred-milligram syringes off of the shelf, along with a bottle of the drug designed for a custom-quantity use.

Three hundred and fifty milligrams.

That should do it.

**

Among the new second-years at the University, Sherlock almost instantly stood out.

He was the boy with shadows on his jaw and cheekbones, the boy who couldn't move his right arm properly. He was the boy with eyes that changed color, the boy who would give you a look when you approached him that promised _death._

He was the boy that had clearly, clearly, _clearly_ been very badly abused.

To the other boys at the University, this was unique. The tuition required per semester encouraged parents to not damage their investments.

But there he was.

The boy with scars. The boy who never laughed, never smiled, never spoke. Never attached himself to anyone, as he'd already learned to _never, ever, ever trust anyone, no matter what._ The boy who, sometimes, would have nightmares. Who would wake up screaming in the night- from fear and pain.

It didn't take long for him to get a solitary dormitory.

He was Sherlock Holmes, the boy who shared a last name with the most popular, most influential, most powerful person in the school.

Some scoffed, dismissing it as coincidence. But the word quickly travelled about how the two Holmeses spoke alike. How they both saw everything- Mycroft wisely using the gift to impress, Sherlock using it to fling insults at bullies (many of them among Mycroft's ilk) as they approached.

Mycroft: slick, all-knowing, polished, refined, the one you wanted on your side because he got flawless grades and never got in trouble. The one everybody sucked up to, because he was the very _essence_ of power.

Sherlock: vulgar, violent, quick-witted, with a very mean right hook for his size. He was the one you stayed away from, the one that was the common joke. The Freak, the oddity, the one you punched when you had an itch in your fist.

The only one to truly hold a spot in the mind (and heart) of Mycroft Holmes.

The rumor swept again like wildfire, when the two of them finally crossed paths and people realized that they actually looked somewhat alike: the line of Sherlock's jaw, the way one of Mycroft's eyebrows would quirk when he was thinking, or how he'd bite the corner of his lip the same way Sherlock did. The intense look in both their eyes, the way how- occasionally- once in a blue moon, one would look into Sherlock's eyes and find them grey, exactly like his brother's. One would take a step back, almost thinking they were about to beat the living hell out of _Mycroft-fricking-Holmes._

And then one would note how Sherlock's skin remained stubbornly pale while Mycroft's was inclined towards a slight tan. How Sherlock's hair was a mess of pitch-black curls, while Mycroft's was a rich brown. The way Sherlock walked with hate and fear in his eyes, twitching at the slightest sound, while Mycroft was fearless.

Or mostly.

Or he hid it _very_ well.

But the one thing that made the world realize that _yes,_ Mycroft and Sherlock were related- impossible as it may seem- was the way that one day, without either saying a word, separated by swarms of people, they both lifted their eyes in a crowd and met each other's gaze.

Sherlock smirked, and flashed a quick signal with a flick of his fingers.

Mycroft tilted his head, his lips curving slightly, and signaled back.

_Fooled them all, didn't we? Hah!_

_Idiots,_ Mycroft agreed. _Utter idiots._

And he would have sworn that Sherlock laughed as the crowd pulled him out of view.

**


	9. Self-Defense

Self-Defense

9

Sherlock Holmes, at the age of six, did not have many friends in the world.

There were those who ignored him, those who were vaguely intrigued by him, and those that had tasted the scent of his blood and lusted for more.

And oh, wasn't it brilliant fun trying to outwit them, with his skin on the line?

The first one to take a special hate to him was a particularly nasty older boy (by three or four years) that went by the name Havrskald. A solid, stocky, strong specimen of the German sort, they'd adopted a very intense dislike for each other.

Sherlock enjoyed mocking him for his thick accent and strange name, as Havrskald often jabbed him mercilessly about his own.

And of course, being Sherlock Holmes, he couldn't have a typical schoolboy grudge. That simply wouldn't do.

He and Havrskald were like rival planets, drawing each other in for an inevitable collision.

The fight would put his name on people's lips for months, and follow him like a legend for the rest of his school career.

Sherlock Holmes. The boy who wasn't nearly as slight and weak as he looked.

*

It was a briskly cold day, the weather having a nice, sharp, appreciable bite. It encouraged you to keep moving, and frowned upon inactivity.

Sherlock shook himself like a dog, quite content.

Standing off by himself, a bit away from the others, it was easy to pick out the bulky, unwieldy figure of the German (four years' advantage- he'd have to be quick) breaking off from the crowd and seeking him out.

Havrskald's shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists, his head bowed.

Sherlock straightened, feeling adrenaline trickle into his system.

_So. Today's the day. About damn time._

He fingered the note in his pocket.

_Alone. Tomorrow. You and me. You can figure out where and who.  
_  
Havrskald stopped ten feet short, murder in his eyes.

_Here it ends- you stealing my things, the stupid little fights between us. Bring it on, you bonehead- and please, do spill first blood. It makes retaliation _so_ much more entertaining._

Havrskald's dark brown eyes glowered at him from under a thick brow, accompanied by a strong (clenched) jaw, solid cheekbones.

_Recent immigrant. Fairly well-off, but brutish. Runs in the family, by the looks of your arms- four brothers?_

The German broke the tension by spitting at Sherlock's feet.

And Sherlock took that as first blood.

"What does Havrskald even mean, anyway?" he sneered. "Half-Brain?"

Havrskald bared his teeth. "What's Sherlock supposed to stand for- dimwitted rat?"

"I was born a blonde, thank you very much," Sherlock returned, classily cool- a very fine touch in the face of such an unrefined accent, subtly taunting the older boy. "_Sherlock_ translates, from Old English, to _fair-haired."_

He mirrored the teeth-baring gesture.

_He's got at least three, maybe four stone on me if not more. Be quick on your feet, Sherlock, or you're screwed._

Beaten on that path, Havrskald huffed.

"I wonder what you'd sound like when you screamed," he said softly, beginning to circle the younger boy that was nearly half his size. Maybe even less than. "Would you sound like a wounded dog, or a dying rabbit? Would you howl like a coyote in a trap, or screech like a shot hawk? What noise would you make when I put my hands around your throat and watched the light go from your eyes?"

The hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck raised.

"And I wonder what sound you'd make," he murmured, so much more threatening in his low tone that forced Havrskald to be quieter in an effort to listen. Like wolves, they circled each other. "When I dodged your hands and put mine around _your_ throat. Would you squeak, like a mouse? How loud would it be when you hit the ground?"

A low snarl sounded deep in Havrskald's chest. Pressing his offense, Sherlock replicated the sound- more impressively, and louder.

"Your bark is worse than your bite," he mocked softly. Perhaps- perhaps- if he'd left it there, the fight would have been prolonged. But his fate was sealed with a single word:

"Coward."

Havrskald lunged.

Sherlock took the punch to his chest skillfully, swiftly sucking in a breath to replace the one he'd lost. He ducked under the arm that reached to wrap around his neck, and scrambled out from the larger boy's shadow.

Brilliantly, every time Havrskald reached for him, he danced out of the way, keeping _just_ out of arm's reach, _just_ letting the fingertips brush his arm.

_Careful, careful, careful-_

Not quite quick enough. The fist collided with his cheekbone, knocking him to the ground.

_Ah, shit. _

Havrskald fell on him, and threw another blow into his gut.

Snarling like a trapped wolf- driving Havrskald into an instinctive state, as he'd often trapped and killed the creatures in Germany- Sherlock, his arms pinned, used the one thing he had left.

He bit.

With a shocked cry, Havrskald reared back, trying to get away. Sherlock quickly slammed his foot into the other's knee, making him give another sound of pain.

And with the other too distracted by wounds, just for an instant, Sherlock escaped, scrambling to his feet.

He sucked in several deep breaths, seizing the opportunity to do so, and ran his tongue over his teeth. Interestingly, the German's blood tasted different than his own.

Drawing himself back onto his legs, Havrskald remained bent over for a moment, only staring at Sherlock, utter hate in his eyes.

The German, desperate, staggered forward.

With a quick blow that split the skin on his knuckles nearly to the bone, Sherlock stepped forward and finished it with a blow to the German's jaw.

There was a sharp _crack_ as the boy staggered, his eyes rolling back in his skull.

And he fell like a ton of bricks.

*

"Did you have to break his jaw?" Mycroft asked wearily, the two brothers having met well after dark in a fairly secret place.

"It was very necessary," Sherlock insisted, adrenaline still in his veins. He was going to _hurt_ tomorrow, and he'd probably messed up the almost-done healing on his arm, but at the moment, he could forget that.

Mycroft sighed.

"You really can be a load of trouble sometimes, Sherlock."

The younger boy grinned.

"Is it true that you actually _bit_ the poor sod?"

"His blood doesn't taste like mine. Isn't that interesting?"

Mycroft muttered something under his breath.

"He tried to choke me," Sherlock said quietly, suddenly serious. "He said… said he wondered what sound I'd make when I screamed, if I'd sound like a wounded dog or a dying rabbit. He wondered if I'd howl like a coyote caught in a trap, or screech like a shot hawk. What I'd look like when the light went out of my eyes."

Any sympathy Mycroft might have had vanished. Cold fury took its place.

_Bastard._

"He deserved it," the elder Holmes hissed. "Tell them, if they ask, that it was self-defense."

And he had a few strings he could pull.

**

_"Did you hear?"_

"What?"

"You know that German kid? Havrskald? Remember him?"

"Yeah?"

"Sherlock Holmes beat the ever-living hell out of him!"

"No way! How?"

So that was the way the vast majority of people perceived it. Sherlock, out of the blue, had suddenly just whaled on the older boy.

_"Violent little snapper. Wouldn't have thought he had it in him."_

With an amused light in his eyes, Mycroft cut into the whispered conversation.

"And yet I hear from a reliable source," said he, "that Havrskald was the aggressor. You know they've got a rivalry going. Apparently, Havrskald decided to finish it, and got more than he bargained for."

The two gossip-mongers turned to him.

"But who would've thought that someone as small as Sherlock would have enough strength to break someone's jaw with a single punch?"

Mycroft smirked. "Often, things aren't what they look to be."


	10. The Look

Behold: a chapter that displays a secretBAMF!Mycroft! Bout damn time!

The Look

10

Summer vacation, again.

Now seven years old, Sherlock stared blankly at the wooden paneling in the wall opposite him. There he was, in a room he wasn't supposed to be in, in a chair he wasn't supposed to be in, thinking.

What reaction would chlorophyll have to bleach?

Maybe, if injected into a living specimen, the subject would turn a bright, unearthly white…

Damn. His thought processes were at their finest when his head was the lowest point on his body (encouraging blood flow to that spot) but that was impossible, considering the room was filled with delicate artifacts.

Vaguely, he registered the sound of Mycroft- in the room adjoining his- turning a page in a book.

Almost absently, he scanned the room. There was that little warp in the paneling, the smudge in the ceiling where the painter had been caught distracted… the dip in the wood where his father had slammed him up against the wall…

Absently, he slipped his fingers under his hair, feeling a scar that stretched as wide as his spread fingers as if a blade had been neatly laid across the skin.

Scars on the skin and below it, Sherlock thought, sighing quietly, stretching, noting without understanding when his knuckles brushed a crystal vase mid-stretch. He extended his arms a bit more, and-

_ -smash!_

Horrified, Sherlock recoiled, but the act was done; the vase was shattered.

He stood, mind racing, trying to find a solution in the few minutes he had as Mycroft walked into the room.

"It was an accident," he practically pleaded. "I swear, it was an accident- I forgot it was behind me for an instant and then-"

Mycroft, his eyes cold, icy cold, stepped forward just as Kerran stormed into the room.

Their father's gaze latched onto Sherlock, and he bared his teeth, ignoring Mycroft as the elder Holmes boy put a protective hand on Sherlock's shoulder as the younger froze with fear. Mycroft pushed him behind his back, and stepped forward even as his father prepared to shove him aside.

"I did it."

Sherlock's eyes, already white, went even wider. Mycroft stood resolutely, waiting.

Option One: Kerran would either turn, favoring his older son, and walk from the room. Crisis averted.

Option Two:

The fist struck quickly, hitting Mycroft's right cheekbone solidly, knocking the boy off his feet.

Immediately, as Sherlock stood paralyzed, Mycroft slowly, purpose in every motion, gathered himself off the floor.

His fingers pressed to an already-forming bruise, he gave his father a look that would be permanently emblazoned on his brother's memory.

His grey eyes as hard as winter ice, Mycroft Holmes showed such disgust, contempt and intolerance in that instant that Sherlock shuddered.

_I will not stand for this,_ that look said plainly. _By God, if you do that again, I swear, I'll fight back._

Dignified, having won the battle, Mycroft walked from the room.

Sherlock sprinted after him.

For a moment, when they were safely in Mycroft's room, the door bolted, Sherlock couldn't find any words to say as Mycroft hunted out an icepack from somewhere and pressed it to his face, hissing quietly.

"Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it," he commented to Sherlock as he sat on the edge of his bed. "I never quite realized. He's got a solid arm on him, doesn't he?"

Sherlock stared.

"Why?"

Mycroft had closed his eyes. Now he opened one of them again. "Why what?"

"Why did you do that? You could have just stayed away and let me take the fall for it."

Mycroft sighed, and opened his other eye, taking in his younger brother. _Holding yourself uncertainly. Not sure what to make of me. Shaken, but awed._

"I'm your brother, Sherlock," he said plainly. "That's what I'm supposed to do."

*

It was just before they left that another event that caused Sherlock to hold his brother in even higher esteem happened.

Freshly bruised, three fingers on his right hand (and one of his left) broken, Sherlock was woken out of a light sleep by the sounds of furious shouting downstairs.

He raised his head from his knees [he'd fallen asleep curled into a ball, again] sharply, like a startled dog, and shrank back into the chair.

Raised voices meant that they were mad, and when they were mad, that meant pain…

Mycroft's eyes snapped open, and he quickly got out of his bed.

By the sounds of those voices, the hard, angry words that they could catch, their parents were on the verge of blows, possibly a homicide…

He yanked a drawer open, and to Sherlock's shock, from its spot on a neat stack of papers, took out a sheath with a hilt neatly nestled into it.

Mycroft wrapped his fingers around the handle of the knife, drew it, and watched the blade glitter in the moonlight.

He put the sheath on top of the drawers, and went to the door.

"Draw the bolt behind me," he ordered, the sounds of his steps going down the stairs.

Sherlock considered only briefly before lunging out of his chair, creeping out the door, and with the utmost stealth, sneaking down the stairs.

He wouldn't let his brother face that alone.

With a dramatic flair, Mycroft turned into the room, towards the argument.

Sherlock watched nervously, prepared to spring into action, but well-hidden on the stairs.

"Stop it, the both of you!" Mycroft shouted, the blade halfheartedly concealed by pretended to tuck his hand in his pocket. "Can't you hear yourselves, yammering like jays over trivialities? What is the _point?"_

Kerran turned, lividly furious as Lydia's eyes widened, awareness creeping into her brain.

When his father's hands reached for his throat- and neither the elder or younger brother had the slightest doubt that their father meant to kill- Mycroft drew the knife in the shard of a second and pointed it at his father's throat, the tip lightly pressing against the skin as first, then more firmly.

"Don't you dare," he said softly. "I swear, if you so much as _touch_ me, I will slit your throat right here and watch you bleed like a stuck pig. And please, give me an excuse. I would so _love_ to do it."

**


	11. Blood in the Snow

Blood in the Snow

11

It was a bitter winter's night when Mycroft heard that strange sound, distant yet close at the same time, ripping him out of a deep sleep in time to hear its echoes.

It was a howl, so like a wolf's that he nearly presumed that was what it was. Nearly.

The Holmes boys, however, _never _presumed. If he presumed, he wouldn't have thought about it more…

…if he hadn't thought about it more, he would have blocked out the way the howl tapered to a human scream before the source died, and it echoed over the hills of the moor one last time.

His heart seemed to turn to ice in his chest.

Maybe he'd imagined it, maybe he was just projecting…

…but he'd better check. It was _always_ better to be safe than sorry.

Slowly, quietly, he crept down the stairs, and flicked out their signal against Sherlock's door.

_Tik-tik-tik, tiktik, tik-tik-tik?_

Worried by the lack of response, he picked the lock and looked inside.

The room was empty.

Afraid now- maybe Sherlock was just hiding somewhere- Mycroft darted down the stairs, his eyes probing every corner of the room.

When he got to the living room, the room of so many fights (where, memorably, he'd broken up his parents' squabble at knifepoint) his stomach dropped out of his body.

A small table had been overturned; there was a fresh crack in the paneling. There were scuff marks on the floor.

And a pool of blood that lead to a trail of spatters and droplets.

It led to the front door.

Genuinely frightened now, as his brother had seen fit to run to the moor rather than his room, Mycroft snatched his coat off of its hook, slipped on boots (noting, painfully, the smeared mark on the wall where Sherlock's fingers had brushed against it while collecting his own jacket) and went outside.

The cold stole his breath for a minute, made it fog in the air as he looked to the snow.

_Strides long- tracks jagged. Running._

And a steady ribbon of scarlet playing through it all, bright red on equally bright white.

There was some sort of symbolism there, but he wasn't in any mood to dig it out.

_Going almost full-out, arms pulled close to chest (for warmth?), slightly overbalanced, showing by the depth of your tracks. You're throwing out twice as much effort as you have to, your heart's going furiously, forcing even more blood out of the wound. Where is it? Did you fight back? Was all the blood in that room yours, or some of it his? Goddamn it, Sherlock, I'm missing too much here. I need to back to see if he left a trail as well, but there isn't any time-_

_Where would you go? Where does a wounded wolf go to die?_

The quick, subconscious metaphor rocking hi back on his heels.

_Not the moor- you're exposed there, to the things that hunt at night, man and beast. The pillars would offer protection, but not enough. No. You'd go to the woods._

_Good and bad choice, brother._

Good: the cover is plentiful. The trees are thick, and the moonlight filtering through the branches would give an effect than would frighten some pursuers.

Bad: the snow is untouched. Your tracks will show as plain as day, especially with the-

The thought stalled in his mind, before he forced it to complete.

_…Blood trail._

_How much have you lost? Does it look like more or less than it actually is? If some of it in the room wasn't yours, then you might be alright- if it was all you, then you'll be feeling lightheaded, dizzy, weak._

But you're going on adrenaline, he realized, seeing the spots where Sherlock had staggered but gone on with an even more fervent pace. _You won't feel the pain. Not yet. They say a deer without any blood left in it at all can flee hunters for days without any sustenance, purely on adrenaline. The fear, however, attached to it will have driven you nearly mad…_

The trail was long and weaving, and sometimes it crossed with others (but that scarlet thread separated it from the rest).

It led to the edge of the forest.

_Staggering, losing strength, but still going,_ Mycroft thought, his pace increasing to a quick trot. _Trail darkening- burning through simple capillary and arterial blood. Advancing from a mix of the three types to exclusively the third: darker, more ominous venous. Damn it, I have to find you. Quickly._

The alternative…

_You're starting to bleed out._

Desperate, Mycroft broke into a run.

_Why didn't I hear anything? How is it that the two of you nearly managed to kill each other and I didn't hear a damn thing? How? Goddamn it!_

If he'd heard, if he'd _seen-_ his father had treated his eldest son like gold after The Knifepoint Incident, he could have prevented it from happening. He could have stopped his brother from dying.

_No, don't think that way, he's not dead, not yet, not yet, not yet-_

And he found something that made his entire being go cold.

The tracks, slightly weaving and unsteady, fell into a large depression into the snow, stained deeply and unevenly melted by blood.

It was easy to read. Sherlock had fallen… but regained his feet, as he had whenever he'd stumbled, and carried on.

So what had caused a greater fall than the others? Why was the blood brighter again, fresher?

And to Mycroft's horror when he pressed his fingers to a particularly nasty blotch of it- not yet as cold as the snow.

_I'm close, I'm close, but what, why-_

Imagining how Sherlock would have been moving- shoulders hunched protectively, arms held tightly to his chest (again, for warmth or because the wound was on one of them? Both were equally likely), desperately running away.

Something brushed against his left side, and there was a sound of rustling in the leaves. A branch covered in thorns whipped out of the cover and slapped painfully (even with the coat, it was painful) against Mycroft's right side.

_Damn,_ he thought almost absently, shaking himself before almost starting forward, rubbing a bit of blood (a part of his mind noted how cold it was already) off of his sleeve.

It took a second for that to register.

Cold blood. The pain had lacked the sting of a cut, and his blood, even taking in the bitter chill, would be faintly warm when so fresh.

_Oh, God._

As the branch swung back to its hiding-place, Mycroft reached for and grabbed it (ignoring the pain as those wickedly long thorns- possibly barbed- dug into his skin).

It didn't take long to see that it was covered entirely in blood that had yet to freeze. So the wound was on the right side, judging- and about chest level. Right arm. The branch had sprung like a trap…

…and bit deeply, deeply into the wound, ripping out muscle fibers, and Mycroft could have sworn that he saw traces of bone on one of the thorns.

Proving the theory, from merely a light contact with the branch, a series of bleeding scratches throbbed on his hand.

There was blood in the snow, his brother's blood, and it was at least a pint now, at least two, maybe even three- and Sherlock was so _small…_

Before Mycroft could stop himself, he screamed his brother's name.

*

_So this is how a shot animal feels as it lays down to die…_

That was Sherlock's vague thought, as he sat with his back pressed numbly against a tree, his knees to his chest for warmth.

His left hand was shaking- hypothermia or blood loss? They were equally likely at this point.

_Maybe they'll never find me out here… maybe no-one will bother to look… maybe that's for the best…_

He'd been doing fine until the branch. Pain invisible behind a blessed veil of adrenaline, he'd been so utterly desperate to get away- _get away from that horrible, damned place-_ that he hadn't seen the trigger for the vine that had held the branch back, one of the cleverest traps in the world devised by Nature itself…

He'd made a sound that had sounded like a wolf's howl that had tapered down to a human scream before his voice had broken. He'd fallen to his knees, blacked out for a few seconds, as he didn't remember how he ended up face-down in the snow. He'd stood quickly, terrified, and that precious veil that hid the pain beginning to break.

He was lightheaded now, barely able to think, and what thoughts he managed were disjointed. _Not such a good thing that I found the feeling of the sleeve on the cut so unbearable that I forced it up beyond my elbow,_ he thought absently. _Too bad about that… might have made it another couple miles if I had pulled it down…_

_I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die…_

So… _tired. _If he could just… sleep…

Note to self. Never engage in a knife-fight with a man five to six times your age, if not more, who's twice as big as you are and twice as strong, too. Especially when he's the only one with a knife and you're stupid enough to try to twist it away from him…

Shivering violently, Sherlock wrapped his left arm around his knees and pressed his eyes to the familiar spot behind the joint of his elbow. Hiding from death would not slow it, but it was, at least, preferable to seeing your end coming. He'd picked himself up again after the branch, dragged himself another fifty feet before realizing he simply couldn't do it anymore and turning sharply to the right, in a last-ditch and hopeless attempt to confuse any pursuers.

_I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die…_

There, he didn't know how far he'd made it on that last fruitless lunge- thirty feet?- before weakly digging his fingernails into the bark of a tree (the severed muscles in his right arm screamed, and the veil shattered) and pulling himself behind it.

Thus. His current position.

_Just find me and get it over with, _Sherlock thought. _Death cannot hurt more than this._

His body was betraying him, a low, choked whimpering sob clutching at his chest, as if an icy fist had gripped around his lungs.

It was enough noise, if someone was trying to track him with the intention of finishing him, that he was done for.

_Just finish it, please,_ Sherlock prayed. _Please, I beg of you, stop it- stop _this_…_

And a voice- a voice so completely familiar, so badly wished for on a primal level of his being that the rush of relief and gratitude was unprecedented- rang out in the stillness of what just might have become his grave.

_"Sherlock!"_

Sherlock's head snapped up.

"Mycroft," he whispered, his throat to dry to manage anything beyond that; a final reserve of energy released, he dug his fingernails again into the bark of the tree and tried to pull himself to his feet. _"Mycroft!"_

Mycroft's eyes darted from side to side, seeking the sound of his brother's voice. Finding it, without a second thought, he broke into a sprint.

He put his hands under Sherlock's shoulders, gently supporting his small frame as his system finally snapped, his legs no longer capable of bearing his weight.

"It's alright," Mycroft whispered shakily, carefully easing Sherlock's body to the ground. "You're safe now."

Sherlock managed to force one of his eyes open. "We're hardly out of the woods yet."

Mycroft managed to pull a dry snort. Even on his deathbed, Sherlock had a strange sense of humor.

"Bandages, inside of my jacket, right side," Sherlock managed as Mycroft painfully examined his wound- a livid, bloody gash that ran from elbow to wrist on the outside of his right arm.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Why didn't you use them?"

"I _did,_ until that bloody branch. Then it ripped the damn thing back open down to the bone, and the ones I had on were ruined, so I took them off- unnecessary irritant- and threw them away." He watched as Mycroft pulled a few of the leftover gauze strips from inside him jacket- praise God, his brother felt so _warm,_ like a living flame- and hissed as pressure was applied to the wound.

But that was exactly was Mycroft Holmes was, Sherlock realized: a living flame. Brilliant, shining, burning the moths that came too close and eclipsing all that surrounded him.

And he, Sherlock, was like a shadow… unnoticed, easy slain, fleeting.

_Light and dark. Fire and ice. We're complete opposites, you and I, except for that fact… we're both extremes. Drawn to each other. Extreme variations from both sides of the thing, nothing alike and yet the same…_

"How did it happen?" Mycroft asked, trying to keep Sherlock talking. If the boy fell asleep, he might never have woken up.

"Ah…" His head felt clouded, and his tongue thick. Sherlock blinked several times. "Well, we got into one of our fights… you know how they go… and we're shouting at each other, and I can't hear myself thinking, until he lunges for me the way he does and I dodge, but he catches my shirt with his hand and I clawed at his arm so he'd let me go…"

His eyes shut tightly.

"And he lets go, and I stagger back, but then he pulls a knife out of nowhere- out of nowhere, Mycroft, I swear, he got it from thin air. I just see the blade shining in the light as he advances towards me, and I grab on to his hand, trying to keep it above my head…"

The angle of the wound fit perfectly. Kerran had overpowered Sherlock, the blade had dropped downward too fast for the eye to see, and hence the present situation.

"Did you get him at all?"

"No. I staggered back, and I couldn't think… ran for the door, grabbed my jacket, pulled it on, forced the sleeve up past my elbow because it hurt too much… and ran."

"Why didn't you come to me?" Mycroft asked quietly.

"The thought didn't cross my mind. I had an instant during the fight where I'd thought you'd come down, thought you'd hear us screaming at each other… but you didn't. So I had to push the idea of you out of my mind to focus on the fight, and managed to fight it off until I started this harebrained dash through the woods."

"Why did you stop?"

"I'd hid the pain away behind a wall of adrenaline, but it broke. It flooded into my system… and I just gave up, Mycroft. I didn't have the energy to fight anymore. I broke off the path, hid behind a tree, and waited to die."

Mycroft said nothing.

Sherlock looked to the sky, smiling slightly as the first shard of dawn pierced the dark sky.

"Which came first, you think," he asked softly. "The phoenix, or the flame?"

**

Ho, boy. THAT was an EmoChapter if I ever saw one.

FYI: Sherlock's last line there… huge foreshadowing. Huge. It's like _Reichenbach _or _The Great Game_ cliffhanger-like huge-ish. Feel free to pitchfork and torch: that last sentence is a cliffhanger. It is definitely a cliffhanger.

And it won't get a solution until we get to modern day Sherlock and Mycroft! *delighted laugh* Oh, isn't it bloody brilliant?

I leave you in the care of caring!Mycroft.

Ciao, Mr. Holmes…


	12. Approaching the Edge

Approaching the Edge

12

_"I should go ahead and see if they're awake."_

"You do that, then."

"But-"

"Goddamn it, Mycroft. I'm not helpless, so stop treating me like an invalid, for Christ's sake-"

"You nearly died_!" It clawed out of Mycroft's throat suddenly, revealing that which kept tormenting his soul. "You nearly died, Sherlock. So just shut up for a minute, because you _are_ helpless."_

_Sherlock gave him an odd look- with some support, he'd made it to the edge of the woods without losing consciousness- and extricating himself from his brother's side, he instantly latched onto a tree branch to keep himself upright._

"Go on, then. I can handle myself for half a minute."

_Mycroft looked over his shoulder, and set off for the house._

That had been three- possibly four- hours ago.

He stared blankly at the ceiling of his room, his mind refusing to shut off and allow him to sleep. It was like an engine, with the pistons eternally firing.

Finally no longer capable of standing his own company for any longer, Mycroft reached over, retracted a false panel in the wall, and pressed a finger against the small intercom button.

_Are you awake?_

In the room below, Sherlock- an arm thrown carelessly across his eyes- gave the source of the nearly silent _beep_ a beady stare, but moved back the panel hiding his own intercom and pressed his hand against the button.

_Yes._

_Brain won't shut off?_

No.

A pause.

_D'you want me to come down?_

Coming down meant talking, but talking meant no longer being alone. Maybe that was what he felt like. Maybe he was just really fecking sick of being _alone._

_Yes._

He bit the corner of his lip.

_Please._

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, released the intercom button, and put the panel back into place.

Sherlock almost never actually said _please._

All the same, he silently journeyed down the stairs, and flicked a knuckle against the door.

"Come in," Sherlock called.

Mycroft easily picked the lock, admitted himself, and then considerately locked the door again behind him before dropping into a chair.

The two brothers, for a while, engaged in companionable silence.

Sherlock was still frighteningly pale, Mycroft noted. He didn't seem inclined to move much, and when he did, it was in a rather clumsy and lethargic way. It was excusable, as he'd probably lost at least a third of his total blood supply, if not half.

"Well?" the elder Holmes asked finally.

Sherlock peered at him through the silver ray of moonlight that glowed through the window. "Well what?"

_It is best to drain the infection from a wound as soon as possible, rather than having to reopen a healed cut._ "What happened, exactly?"

Sherlock's eyes, the color of frosted pine needles, stared unnervingly at Mycroft until he'd nearly given up on getting an answer. And then-

"It started when I nicked some food from the kitchen. For Christ's sake, they never feed me. What was I supposed to do, go out on the moor and scavenge?"

Mycroft said nothing.

"I barely took anything noticeable, really. Maybe it was something that I didn't realize, that I just can't see, but I thought I was taking things that wouldn't be noticed. It's not like it'd be missed."

This was a very factual statement: the cupboards of the Holmes manor never even began to conceive of the notion of becoming bare.

"So I skim through, taking a bit here, a bit there- does it qualify as stealing? I've got just as much right to it as them don't I?"

"One would think so."

Sherlock frowned slightly. "As it turns out, however, he somehow found out. And, apparently, what I'd just done was a cardinal sin."

Mycroft waited.

"So he's going on and on and on, calling me a thief and a liar, but I want so _badly _to say: _but what about you?_ If I'm a traitor to our name, how can he not be as well? Is stealing from the cupboards as bad as nearly killing your son?"

The words sent a chill down Mycroft's spine, but he still said nothing.

"And then I actually say it," Sherlock said, mustering enough energy to roll onto his side to face his brother better. "I don't know what came over me, but I actually said it. I must have been insane. He's twice my size, and I just called him out on his hypocrisy."

His left hand curled, slowly, into a tight fist before he continued.

"And then I finally just let it all come out, because I've doomed myself already. I'm screaming at him, saying how he's no better than I am, that if I'm a blood-traitor then so is he, because we're one and the same, him and I, aren't we? Connected by blood, a bond forged on the deepest level possible? We're shouting at each other, loud enough that it's hurting my throat, and then…"

He swallowed.

"…and then he steps forward faster than I can back away, and he's got his hand around my neck. I can't breathe, and he slams me up against the wall hard enough to make my vision flicker."

There, he had to take a steadying breath, just to tell himself that yes, it was over.

"_'Take it back,'_ he says, and he tightens his grip so that I get these little specks dancing across my line of sight. _'Take it back, you scrawny little rat.'_

"My feet aren't even touching the floor, and he's asking me to _apologize?_ I've already gone past that point where I know I've dug myself too deep a hole to climb out of by words, so I don't even bother pretending to beg. I clawed at his hand well enough to draw blood, and he lets me go. I don't get that instant to gather myself before he turns back, and he's got that knife in his hand."

Sherlock went utterly still.

"He raises it over his head," he said, so quietly that Mycroft had to strain his ears to catch the sound. "I just thought to grab his wrist when he brought it down to try to stab me. I think we knocked over a table fighting over the thing, but he was so much taller than me… my hand slipped, and it cut my arm."

He shuddered, once. Only once was allowed.

"It brought me to my knees, the pain of it," he whispered. "And I swear, Mycroft, I think he would have killed me if I hadn't kicked out at his knee when he stepped forward to finish me. He staggered back and fell to the floor, just the same as me. If I didn't go for it then, I wouldn't be able to, so I ran."

There was a moment of silence.

"How did you know to come find me?"

"I…" _Got a feeling that woke me out of a dead sleep even before I heard you scream. It wasn't the sound: it was that._ "Heard a sound echoing over the moor. I thought it was a wolf's howl at first, but when it tapered to a human-like sound… well, I grew worried. I went downstairs, and not failing to see the scene you'd left behind-"

_So much blood. By God, it's amazing you didn't black out._

"-I followed the trail."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, sensing a sliver of something that was not quite the truth.

But it wasn't really his place to question Mycroft if he decided to withhold something.

_Someday, maybe, but not now._

**

The phone call woke him out of a dead sleep.

John opened his eyes, and peered at the phone on his bedside. With a definite feeling of… conviction, he supposed it could be described as, this "it's-time-to-stand-your-ground" sort of attitude, he picked it up and answered it.

"Sarah?"

_"Morning, John… We went through inventory in the hospital. Turns out we're short a bottle of morphine- it's logged out under your name, but we don't have a record of any of your patients receiving a custom dose. Three hundred and fifty milligrams, three syringes?"_

John flicked his eyes through the open door towards his bathroom, where said bottle and syringes sat innocently on his sink.

"I got called out to a massive crash on one of the highways- fourteen-car pileup. Pulled it out to use it there, and figured I'd end up using it there. I did, and disposed of it properly."

_"Alright then. Sorry about the inconvenience."_

"It's no trouble- no trouble at all. Good morning. I'll see you… later?"

_"Later."_

She hung up, and left John alone.

He got up, walked to the bathroom, and took one of the syringes in his hand. The lie would hold them off for a bit more, until they realized that it didn't quite add up.

Three syringes to use up three hundred and fifty milligrams? Granted, it would have been very easy to get his hands on more at the crash site, but it was more than slightly suspicious, and would cause a small inquiry.

By the time it matured into something more- it would probably, under normal circumstances, culminate is a halfhearted sweep of his quarters if things were truly amiss- he'd be dead.

He fingered the delicate syringe, and held it to the light.

But not yet, he thought. Not yet.

**


	13. Beginning to Fall Apart

"_The world is changed."_

-Galadriel, _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_

Beginning to Fall Apart

13

Things were different.

The play went on, the actors going through the moves like puppets; but something had changed that night when Kerran had drawn the knife and nearly killed his younger son, and it wasn't about to go back to normal anytime soon.

So it was that one night, Mycroft could clearly hear the softly keening sound of a violin playing in the room below.

_Slow, mournful tune,_ he thought. _Grieving. For what?_

Or more accurately… what not for?

And so there it was, summarized in a piece of violin music: the beginning of the downfall of the Holmes family.

**

"John?" Sarah walked up to his desk- he'd hidden in his office for a quick break. "You alright?"

He lifted his head out of his hands. "Yeah, yeah… fine."

Almost as if he was daring her to challenge him, he stared directly into her eyes.

A chill crept up her spine. "I was just wondering," she said, edging away. "They've got a few new ones in the ER, if you're interested…"

He stood, quickly.

"Yes, I am. Thank you," he replied stiffly.

She watched him go, some instinct flickering deep inside her brain for just an instant.

John's hand quivered as he walked down the hall, causing him to irritably clench it into a fist.

He was craving a hit.

He rubbed at the gooseflesh on his forearms- irritating, _infuriating-_ and tried to fight of the signs of his addiction.

Small amounts of morphine were easy to steal. A larger amount, like the bottle, was harder to conceal, and they'd catch him, given a week.

A week was all he needed; a week was enough time. Seven days was all he asked for.

_Please, God, don't make me do this before I'm prepared._

Because John Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was afraid of doing it. He would go through with it: his conviction was set, and he was utterly determined. He'd already decided on a spot on his left wrist, where he'd shove the needle deep into the pulsepoint without a need for a tourniquet to expose the vein. It would be quick, it would have to be: one syringe after another, rapid-fire, because it would start to cause lethargy when he finished the second…

The third was the one, he was fairly sure, that would finish it. Two hundred milligrams, it was possible that given a patch of luck (good or bad) he'd survive. But three hundred, quickly slammed into a vital point…

It would end. The cravings, the aches, the tremors, the nightmares, the fear, the pain, all of it- it would end.

Five more hours to wait, however, until he could sneak a fix and steady his hands. He was on for a long shift, which gave him few opportunities.

Five more hours, before he could take the edge off of that sharp, bleeding wound inside his heart…

**

And many miles away from where the two Holmes brothers warily learned the dance of Fate, a boy- his term had started early- adjusted the lay of the pack on his back.

Carl Powers was eleven years old, and life couldn't get any better.

It was during a brief incident- a visit to a rival of his school's during a swimming competition- that his own fate was sealed, and a twenty-year saga was begun.

"What kind of a name is Moriarty, anyway?" Carl asked, quickening his stride to keep up with the awkward, outcast boy he enjoyed making fun of. "Is it some sort of jackeen slang for-"

"Don't say it," Jim hissed. "Leave me alone, Carl."

"Thanks for the offer, but I don't think I will," Carl said cheerfully.

Jim lengthened his stride, trying to escape.

"Wait up, Jimmy," Carl called, trotting forward to catch up. At the opportune moment, he stuck out his foot, catching Jim's legs and making him pitch forward.

And as Carl laughed, he signed his own death certificate.

*

Jim was incapable of holding a standard grudge.

So it was that when he poisoned Carl's eczema medication with the _costridium botulinum _toxin, he grinned to himself.

_And here,_ thought he, _it begins!_

*

He was feeling ever so slightly off.

Carl frowned slightly, preparing for his early-morning practice, a ritual of his before a competition. London was a fine place, in his opinion- refreshingly different from Sussex.

His lungs felt a bit tight, and a hint of nausea curled in his gut. A faint headache throbbed between his temples, and his muscles felt weak.

_Nothing a good bout of exercise won't fix,_ he thought, and dove into the water.

_Lap one._ The familiar start-up of his system cleared his brain a touch, brought energy to his limbs.

_Lap two._ So far, nothing was off mark; everything was responding as per normal, and Carl presumed he'd simply had a slight chill.

_Lap five._

First mark of something wrong: a muscle in his right arm cramped. He ignored it, and pushed on.

_Lap eight._

Another muscle, this one in his stomach, clenched and tightened. Hissing slightly with the pain, Carl pushed himself off of the wall, challenging the pain more than exercising at this point.

_Lap eleven._

His lungs seemed to be losing their efficiency, breaths seeming shorter and harder to draw. It was like a massive vise was slowly closing on them, drawing just a little tighter with every breath.

_Lap thirteen._

The muscles in his right arm froze entirely, not allowing the slightest movement. Frightened, Carl reached for the edge of the pool- but it was too far away.

He'd never make it.

It happened quickly: paralysis was soon to take over his limbs, one by one, leaving the boy to fight the water and gravity with ever-decreasing results.

When he fell below the surface and didn't resurface, a pair of eyes watched from the shadows, in the exact same spot where twenty years later, a man named John Watson would stand, with a bomb strapped to his chest.

"Who's laughing now, Carl?"

And his eyes alight with malice and the evil that triggered an instinct to simply just _run away,_ James Moriarty tossed back his head and cackled like a madman.


	14. Cornerstone: Carl Powers

"_Who's Carl Powers?"_

"It's where I began, John."

Cornerstone: Carl Powers

14

Sherlock threw the paper down on the desk as he paced by.

"He was murdered."

Mycroft looked up from the essay he'd been writing. He skimmed over the headline, already familiar with the story.

"He had some sort of seizure in the water and drowned. They've already worked it out."

"Can't you _see?"_ Sherlock gripped the edge of the desk, leaning forward to make his point. "I looked over the casenotes-"

"Hacked into their database?" Mycroft asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"So maybe I did," Sherlock muttered. "That doesn't change anything. See, they found all of his clothes in his locker. His shirt, his trousers, everything was there. _Except_ his shoes."

Intrigued, Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "Go on?"

"He had eczema- says so right there," Sherlock said, jabbing a finger at the paper. "It'd be child's play to spike his medication with a poison. And they didn't do a tox screen."

"What about his medical history? Has he ever showed any signs of a heart problem, spinal issues?"

Sherlock quickly relaxed into their familiar pattern of question-and-answer. "Not a single hint of any such thing, in fact. His heart was exceptionally healthy, his spine was absolutely normal. The only thing I could dig up was a sprained wrist at the age of nine. Sports injury. Very minor."

"Quite irrelevant," Mycroft murmured, frowning slightly. "It's possible. But couldn't it have simply been that he had a seizure? They do occur without the factor of epilepsy quite frequently."

Sherlock bit his cheek. "It's possible," he conceded. "But… why? Why would a boy without any history whatsoever of such a condition suddenly be overcome by it? And what about his shoes?"

"Why would somebody take the shoes? Maybe he just lost them."

"Carl Powers, swimming athlete, Olympic hopeful, lose his shoes? Please. Think, Mycroft. What would make them special?"

"You tell me."

"They're the thing he touches the most. He'd take them off for swimming and put them back on again; he'd retie them when they needed it. All of his clothes are changed out regularly except for the shoes. People don't changes their shoes with their clothes."

"There's a point," Mycroft said quietly. Maybe the boy _had_ been murdered.

"The shoelaces would hold bits of his skin where it flaked off- they're a virtual scrapbook of his life. So if he'd been poisoned, it'd show there, if anywhere, yes?"

When Mycroft said nothing, Sherlock took it as a minor victory and continued. "Just to take the shoelaces- that would be suspicious, and provoke those slow-witted trolls at Scotland Yard to quite possibly realize that there was something off. Take the shoes, though, and they could just be misplaced, or somebody borrowed them. Who cares to look for a pair of shoes in a death that's hardly suspicious at all?"

"Some days you scare me, Sherlock. You could become one of those criminals you so enjoy analyzing, the way your brain runs."

For the first time, Sherlock pressed his hands together and brought his fingers to his lips. "I just might. Civilian life is so _boring."_

*

The sound downstairs brought him out of a dead sleep.

For an instant, his muscles were as tense as piano wire; then, irritated- there wasn't a word that quite described the feeling of being woken up at an unholy hour of the morning by-

He slammed a hand against the intercom button.

"Violin music at _three in the bloody morning,_ Sherlock? Are you serious?"

The music cut off. There was a _click_ as the other intercom triggered. "I'm _thinking,_ Mycroft. Do I spit upon your methods? No!"

"I don't play music at-" he glanced at the clock again- "fecking half-three in the morning, for the love of God!"

"That's your problem, then," Sherlock quipped, and began playing again.

Mycroft groaned, released the button, and rolled onto his other side.

Bad idea, he realized. The music was a bit rougher in sound, a bit more unpleasant on the ear than before…

"It was a poor decision you made there."

True horror flooded into Mycroft's veins.

"You've gone and _taped down the intercom button."_

"Yes."

"Just to make a point."

"Yep."

"And to keep me from sleeping."

"That just about covers it, yeah."

Mycroft stared pointedly at the wall opposite, as if he could intimidate his younger brother without even looking into the right direction.

"If you don't stop, I'll-"

"Do what?" Sherlock challenged.

"…Damn it," Mycroft hissed. "I'll come down and-"

"If you were to do such a thing," Sherlock said easily, subtly making the music a bit better on the ear, "I just might find that my lips could slip one morning, and tell Mother about your-"

Mycroft instantly slammed his hand back against the button. "You wouldn't."

"I would," Sherlock nearly sang cheerfully. "Just by accident- a little slip about-"

"You _wouldn't!"_ Mycroft cried out, interrupting.

"I would." Mycroft could literally _feel_ Sherlock's grin, and fought back a groan of despair. "And what would the Ruler of the World do when Mummy Dearest found out about his-"

"God. _No."_

Sherlock laughed, delighted. "So you see, it's really in your best interest to not-"

"Quite."

"Admit it. I just outwitted you."

"No," Mycroft sulked slightly, flipping back onto his other side.

"I did, quite fairly. Oh, what will they think: the high and mighty Mycroft Holmes, brought to his knees by his younger brother…"

"You're a heartless monster," Mycroft muttered. "A sociopath."

The music paused, just for a second, as Sherlock froze while his brother's words hit home.

_Very true, brother dear,_ he thought, and began playing again, albeit with a different tone than before. _Very true. Nobody else has said that before, though. What'll it be next- 'freak'?_

_"Et tu,_ Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, quietly enough that his voice wouldn't carry to the intercom.

And there was the cornerstone of the feud between the two brothers that would last twenty years, a rivalry that would be the death of several people and change the lives of many more.

In that instant, it was a slight wedge; a tiny difference in the world, suddenly, when Mycroft changed the boundary between himself and Sherlock.

Not quite equals. Not anymore. Mycroft was the superior.

_The firstborn,_ he thought, not for the first time, as it had been told to him many times by his parents. _The better son._

**

*shameless little proud preening over the shoelaces bit* Why _would_ Moriarty take the shoes? I had to explain it, and I like to think I did so rather well.

I admit, I had writer's block at the bit when Sherlock had his little muse about becoming a criminal, at the first asterisk bit, and actually considered ending the chapter there. But then I sort of pushed out that chunk, and again stared at the screen for a bit before tacking on the part where Mycroft insults Sherlock. That was actually spur-of-the-moment, but excellently begins to divide the brothers. Not too bad, for impulse.

Sherlock-Mycroft theme song: watch?v=iAXscgiUyd0 . In case that doesn't show up, Google "Silver Parachute by Sam Cushion".

And imagine it as a duet, with Mycroft playing the piano…

In fact, most of Sam Cushion's Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay music can be applied to Sherlock's plotline. As the entireties of the first and second parts of "Music of Panem" are already on Youtube in whole videos, enjoy that teaser, dear reader.

And also, seriously please: suggestions. I'm running out of ideas before we start picking up the timeline to where Sherlock collapses into a junkie-state, so if you want to see anything of young-and-friendly Mycroft and Sherlock before the deadline: now's the time to suggest it.


	15. That's What Brothers Do, Isn't It?

That's What Brothers Do, Isn't It?

15

That stupid little remark had been cold, Mycroft knew. It had been cruel.

As he couldn't quite find a way to apologize, and Sherlock was avoiding him, he had little choice but to allow a cold, awkward distance between them.

When the new school term began, little changed.

Occasionally, he'd glimpse his brother: quiet, pale, and so devoid of company that it became a title that superseded his actual name: He Who Walks Alone.

And even as Mycroft had dozens, if not hundreds of people at his fingertips, he felt equally separated from the world.

He became just a bit more withdrawn, and less likely to break a silence. Sometimes he'd tune everything out completely, and merely look off into the distance, those steel-grey eyes clouding over slightly.

Becoming withdrawn, however, had the effect of losing control, ever so slightly, bit by bit, over his small kingdom.

And losing control meant traitors.

*

There was probably some sort of hideously ironic story somewhere, Mycroft would think later, about a king and a turncoat hound that would fit the situation like a glove.

But that night, that was the last thing on his mind.

_He Who Walks Alone._

The snow whispered slightly under his feet as he walked out into the night, a bit away from the school, just to be by himself entirely.

_Two of a kind, you and I. I forced you into exile, and take the same upon myself. Fitting._

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so damn sorry, and words can't even begin to express it, because they mean nothing. Words mean nothing, and they're all I have. I'm sorry I said it. I regret it. And how can I expect you to read my thoughts when you're nowhere near me?_

He stood by the brick wall, stared up at the moon.

And something cold, terrifyingly cold, pressed against his throat.

Mycroft turned away instantly, instincts screaming; the knife caught on his collarbone, dug deeply into his chest, and finally ended contact with his skin (quite possibly bone as well) low on the right side of his ribcage.

The pain was sudden, unprecedented, and unexpected. Mycroft fell to his knees, too shocked to make a sound of pain.

"Get away from him," a voice, cold, high, frighteningly furious, hissed from the shadows.

The attacker turned, the blade- Mycroft's knife, handily pickpocketed- bloody, glimmering in the moonlight. He raised it, pointed it into the shadows as he advanced.

"Why the bloody hell would I?" he demanded.

His arm was suddenly seized, his knife-hand forced upward so quickly and roughly that his wrist snapped. As he yelped like a dog at the pain, another hand clamped around his throat and rammed him against the wall, forcing his vision to flicker.

Grey eyes shone icily in the moonlight as the avenging angel stepped back, waiting for the attacker to regain his voice as he adjusted his grip on the newly-acquired knife, pointing it at the shuddering form on the ground.

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't," he asked softly, pressing the tip into the would-be killer's throat. "Give me a reason, or I swear, I will gut you like a stuck pig and watch you die right here, in this pathetic little corner. Blood on snow makes for a most… _appealing_ color."

"Who the bloody hell _are_ you?" the attacker snarled violently, lunging.

The defender simply stabbed the blade into his right shoulder.

_Don't want to kill him… that'd be entirely too much trouble…_

The demon howled, and staggered back.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," the avenger said quietly.

The assailant clutched at his wound, and looked at him blankly.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he repeated, stepping forward menacingly. "Basically: run."

The lowlife at his feet gasping in a few more shuddering breaths, looking up at Sherlock in wonder; then, the words striking home, he scrambled to his feet and fled.

Sherlock watched him go, and then ran to his brother's side.

"How bad is it?" he asked, pressing a hand to the cut- deep, long, and bleeding profusely.

Mycroft hissed through his teeth. "Couldn't have shortened that a little bit? Were the theatrics really _necessary?"_

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, trying to staunch the blood flow. "I needed to teach him a lesson. He won't forget it. Ever."

As a strip of gauze was pressed to the wound, Mycroft bit back a curse. "You've been following me?"

"Everywhere." His eyes devoid of emotion, Sherlock pressed another strip to the gash. "What else would I do with my free time?"

Despite the situation, Mycroft managed a choked laugh. "We just can't do anything normally, can we, Sherlock?"

It might have been Mycroft's imagination, but he could have sworn that Sherlock's lips twitched, ever so slightly.

"I should hope not," he murmured, as Mycroft's eyes drifted shut.

*

When he woke, it was warm.

Comfortably warm, Mycroft registered, his eyes still closed. There was the soft weight of a blanket on his skin, the air no longer biting against his cheeks. If he wasn't mistaken, he was lying on a bed.

He cracked an eye. Judging by the light coming through the window, it was-

"Morning," Sherlock said from the other side of the room, where he sat on his own bed.

Mycroft, feeling disgustingly weak, managed to open both of his eyes and was relieved when he was able to see fairly straight.

"Why they put two beds in a solitary dormitory is beyond me," Sherlock continued, "but it certainly was convenient. Yours is quite a bit above mine."

He remembered, distinctly, the feeling of the knife cutting into his flesh, but the wound was curiously numb.

Sherlock stood, crossing the distance between himself and his elder brother with quick, confident strides.

"I treated the cut with silver nitrate," he said, brushing his fingers along Mycroft's arm and noting how cold his skin still was. "Granted, it's only approved for use on large wounds in birds, but I've used it on myself, and it's fine. It stops the bleeding, although it's not quite pleasant. It'll be a while before you feel it, as I didn't think you deserved to wake up to that."

For a moment, Mycroft only looked at him. And then:

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have said what I did. I regret it."

Sherlock looked up, and met his eyes.

"The debt's settled now, isn't it?" he asked. "You saved my life, I saved yours. We're even, now, aren't we? I forgive you. That's what brothers do, isn't it?"


	16. Unique Communication Methods

Unique Communication Methods

16

At lunch break, one day in January, Sherlock tilted his head, briefly intrigued by the new student who sat at her own table.

_Twitching. Won't stop moving. Eyes are nice and white, coloring sharp and clear- not a junkie. Looks about sixteen, but probably about thirteen, fourteen, going by her schedule, far as I can see. She keeps tapping a pen on her knees, scrawling in a notebook under the table. She doesn't think anyone can see. Why are you twitching? Face doesn't say major mental disorder. What are you so desperate to be doing? Small scar on back of right hand, looks like she hooked it on a nail somewhere. Tiny scars on left index and middle fingers. Odd placement. Callus on right middle finger- right handed, but uses her thumb to shape letters. Interesting. Why won't you stop twitching? Long, red-brown curly hair, she occasionally pushes it back from her face. Green eyes, like pale pine needles, rimmed by a much darker shade. Pale skin, but well-tanned, calluses on wrists. Long sleeves. Just flicked to a folder in the notebook- what was that?_

He ran through his mental files, trying to match the text and picture with anything he could remember.

_Dutch pattern- Female Red-Tailed Hawk_

_American, either immigrant or exchange student. _

Dutch pattern- female red-tailed hawk?

_Hawk's hood. Leatherworker! Explains scars, pressure mark on middle finger. Show me your left arm compared with your right, come on… left hand significantly less tanned than right. Falconer._

Sherlock grinned to himself.

_Explain excessive energy- accustomed to massive physical and mental activity, needs something to stimulate the mind. Explain notebook: writing a novel. _

She pushed back her left sleeve briefly to scratch at a spot on the inside of her elbow.

_Explain scars on forearm: hawk got a bit overexcited._

_Explain knee-high moosehide boots, set of shoulders, perpetually glancing at the clock: got a little excursion planned, do we? The woods would make for good hunting._

_Explain packing up and running for the nearest exit that leads outdoors, _he thought finally with no little satisfaction as he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest: _boredom._

I know exactly how you feel.

*

The sharp tapping at his window woke him.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his gaze flicking from corner to corner before he decided that _yes,_ the sound actually was something tapping on the window.

He glanced at the clock. _12:27 A.M.,_ _during a snowstorm? _

"What the bloody hell," he asked under his breath as he crossed to the window and undid the latch, "would be-"

The instant he opened the window so much as a sliver, something clawed its way in, past his arm, causing him to jump back with a violent start, allowing the window to slam shut.

Sherlock instantly backed at least ten feet away from the window and the _thing_ before he looked at it.

The pigeon stood demurely on his bedpost, tilted its head, and chirped.

It was then that he noticed the bit of paper rolled up and tied to its leg.

"Mycroft, you git," Sherlock muttered, walking to the bird and confidently retrieving the message. "This couldn't have waited until morning? And a _pigeon,_ for Christ's sake?"

He unfurled the note.

_I've got a bit of a task that fits you more than me. Feel up to it?_

_-M_

Irritated, Sherlock grabbed the nearest pen, flipping the message over, threw the pen at the wall when it proved to be a dud, and ransacked his des looking for one that worked.

_Why would I? 12:27 in the bleeding morning? It couldn't wait?_

_-S_

He tied the reply to the bird's leg, and as it was willing to step onto his hand before he had to figure out a way to hold on to it, he went to the window, let it step on to the ledge, and lifted the glass.

"Go on, then," he encouraged, giving it a supportively rough nudge.

It looked over its shoulder at him in disgust, but flew off into the darkness.

The reply was quick in coming.

_On the contrary, it wasn't quite 12:27 when I sent the note, but I digress. A chance to prove yourself, Sherlock. I'm surprise you haven't sprung at it._

_-M_

Sherlock sighed, won over. But the chance to mess with Mycroft was rare, so he'd have fun with it.

He dug a new piece of paper out of his desk.

_Chase the wind, brother dear. It'll be more effective._

_-S_

The reply was even quicker.

_Touch the sky._

_-M_

For the sake of appearance, Sherlock lightly banged a fist on his desk.

"Damn," he said under his breath.

_You just out-out-harassed me, didn't you?_

_-S_

A small wait:

_Quite._

_-M_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_Ugh. I concede defeat. What is it you want me to do?_

_-S_

The pigeon looked truly disgusted with him as he shoved it back out the window, sleep forgotten.

It looked even more displeased with its situation when it came back.

_You walk places I cannot. You're the one who stalks his prey in the shadows, while I'm forced to do it in the open. There's a small gang: a Mexican, a Greek, an Italian, a Russian, a Czech, and a Slovakian. They're becoming quite the inconvenience, as I don't even know their names, so anything you could find would be welcome._

_-M_

For a moment, Sherlock only stared at the page, surprised that his brother was so clueless. He fetched another bit of paper- even though Mycroft had supplied a new one, it wouldn't cover what he had to say- and, having already known almost everything about said mysterious cult, began to transcribe.

_I find myself genuinely surprised. You honestly know nothing of them? I'm disappointed, Mycroft- disappointed…_

The Mexican: Lino Martinez. Immigrant, gangster back in his homeland- 'Soldados'. Tough bastard, has a punch that's downright nasty to be on the wrong side of. Has a girlfriend, Penny Soto, who's even meaner than he is. Christian: carries a medal from his First Holy Communion, given to him by his mother and inscribed 'Lino, may le Virgin de la Guadalupe watch over you- Mama.' Soft spot: he swore when he left home that he'd return with power and riches. Good luck to him, because he's not on the right path.

The Greek: Lukas Yannatos. Locally born and raised, comes from moderate money. Good family, good background, has a chance to make himself into something better than what he's falling into. He's guilty about the gang: he was coerced into it. He's the weak link, if you need one, the one most likely to rat out. Or you could just say you're my brother. Or ask me to do the legwork for you.

The Italian: Francesco Vandaro. Proper thug, immigrated when young, family not well off, and brutality runs in the family. He wasn't abused: doesn't flinch when he's touched. It's interesting, to say the least, when he gets mad, as he devolves into his native tongue. Italian profanity is impressive. Not as heavily muscled as Martinez, but still strong enough, he's more just dead weight and back up to the main players: a pawn. Not of importance. He does, however, have an affinity for a devastating chokehold, if memory serves. Clawing at his eyes is the best way to escape.

The Russian: Sergei Medvedev. Immigrant. His English is so heavily accented he's difficult to understand, particularly when you're trying not to be seen. Family, mafia, and it shows. He's almost as mean as Martinez, which makes him Lino's right hand, of course. Has a girlfriend, Lydia, the Norwegian- you know her. He forced her into it, threatened her with violence- which she receives anyway. She's taken to covering her arms and not holding eye contact. Sergei tends to hide in his lair when he doesn't have numbers at his back, but if you took Lydia from him… it would almost certainly draw him out.

The Czech: Dagmar Zajic. His last name translates to 'Hare'- and it fits well. He's their runner, their scout, the one who's quick enough to sneak behind you and drop you like a well-placed punch. He's the one who'll chase you down, follow you until you can't run anymore, and lunge at your throat like a wild dog. There's cruelty lodged deep inside of him: fear is well-placed. Watch your back.

The Slovak: Radovan M_ä__siar. Name translates to 'Butcher', and he does his best to fulfill it. Martinez will beat you to a pulp, the rest will improvise, but Radovan? He carries a knife, a wicked scimitar-type thing… and God help anybody he gets his hands on. He's just as strong as Lino, and they say he laughs when his prey screams. Immigrant because of illegal activities in his homeland. He started young, at three, torturing mice. He quickly graduated to cats, then dogs, and then his younger sibling before he was forced onto us. He hunted game back in Slovakia, and I hear that he'd intentionally direct his shots to areas that would make a slow kill- just for the thrill of seeing blood, of hearing a pain-scream, and watching the beast die. If you can avoid any of them, or take one of them down- Radovan. He's the worst one, up close._

I hope this helps.

_-S_


	17. Car Accident

One of these days I'll click on the 'manage story' page or look at my listing on the main fanfic page, and there'll be like, a million reviews. *resolutely marches on*

Car Accident

17

It was nearly dawn when the pigeon came again.

_Taptap, taptaptap, taptaptap-_

"I get the point," Sherlock snarled, getting out of his (warm) bed and going to the window again. "What the bloody hell is it this time, Mycroft?"

He took the message off of the bird in such a manner that even accustomed to being handled not-quite-properly, she squawked loudly at the treatment.

_Mother had a car accident. More details to follow._

_-M_

Sherlock froze.

A faint flicker of something akin to hysteria flashed in his chest before he ruthlessly pressed it back.

_Keep calm. Not yet. Not now. _

_How?_

_-S_

It took a moment.

_The road was icy. The car slipped, went into the ditch. Now it's practically sideways. She can't get out, but there's somebody going to get her. She's alright. Shaken, but alright, for the most part._

_-M_

_Are you sure? She could have a concussion and not realize it, or go into shock, or any number of things that strike unnoticed. You know them as well as I do. Internal bleeding, brain damage. I've heard about men who've had metal rods shoved through their bodies and not noticed during a crash._

_-S_

_Sherlock. Relax. _

_-M_

_But- can't you see? She could have died!_

_-S_

_But she didn't. She's alive. That's all that matters. You're getting wrapped into the 'what-if', Sherlock. You're not yourself. Do you want me to come over?_

_-M_

Sherlock sighed, staring at the piece of paper, tapping the pen absently on his thigh.

_Yes._

_-S_

_On my way._

_-M_

Sherlock dropped into a chair, and pressed his fingers to his temples.

"Headache?" Mycroft asked from the doorway.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered.

"She's going to be fine."

"I know that. I'm just… having a psychological breakdown. It's entirely unnecessary and incredibly mortifying."

_There's the Sherlock I know._ "Some would say you're entitled to one. You're young. It's hardly unheard of."

"I say I'm _not_ entitled to one. Look at me, Mycroft, shaking like a leaf in a wind. It's ridiculous."

_Tactic number one: distract._

"I wanted to thank you for the information. Mäsiar's scimitar: what style is it?"

Sherlock raised his head, looking at his older brother. "Saudi. Old-fashioned. Light-colored blade, eight inches long, steel."

"There's something about the Greek you didn't want to put in a letter that had a chance of being intercepted."

"He's one of my worms. Contrary to what most think, I actually do have a small network- spies, mostly."

He considered. "You might want to ask your friend who suddenly took a greater interest in you how he acquired a few more valuable items."

"You stole them, and gave them as payment?"

"No skin off mine."

"Any experience with Martinez?"

"He caught me, once, when he was by himself without the others to slow him down. Suffice to say, when we were done, I knew what it felt like to have a dislocated shoulder and he what the nasty end of a shank felt like."

"You _shanked_ the poor bastard?"

"Honed down some plastic silverware into a shiv. It qualifies more as a shank. Here." He drew something white out from under his sleeve, and tossed it to Mycroft, who caught it adeptly.

It was shaped like a double-edged dagger, admirably so- in fact, almost an exact replica. The handle fit comfortably to his hand as he turned it, inspecting for flaws.

"Where did you hide the thing you melted the plastic with?" he asked as he looked around the room, then re-registered the object under the bed. "Ah… you stole a Bunsen burner and put it under your bed?"

"I didn't steal it. I confiscated it."

Mycroft laughed. "Of course." He tossed back the knife/shiv/shank/thing. "You do realize that because of the innate nature of the base material, it'll break within a couple more uses, and that it's in fact surprising that the edge held through its ordeal with Martinez?"

"Quite," Sherlock said, tucking it back into the sheath he'd strapped to his left forearm. "It's still sharp, though."

"Very." In hindsight, it had been rather stupid to run a finger along the edge. The cut stung, badly.

"And Mäsiar, Radovan Mäsiar- what about him?"

Sherlock became perfectly still.

_"Mustela in pullum scriptor cavea,"_ he said softly. _The weasel in the chicken's coop._

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"As cruel as a whip, as strong as a machine. His brain is like crystallized ice, dangerous, volatile, deceptively benign…"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"And he's bloody brilliant," Sherlock whispered, a strange gleam in his eyes. "His theories for causing pain, his thought processes, his philosophies… he has a magnificent mind, that has been put to one of the many uses it could have. He could be a brilliant criminal- already is, most likely…"

Mycroft tilted his head. "You admire him."

"Not quite." Sherlock pulled back his right sleeve, showing the red scar on his arm that had healed on the surface. "Any opponent with so little honor as to catch a wound and dig his fingers into it, down to the bone, is not worthy of admiration."

*

In fact, Radovan Mäsiar was indeed already a criminal.

Keeping watch, the Slovakian looked at his companion askance as Martinez sat down next to him.

"The payment was handsome," the Mexican said, handing over an envelope. "Here's your share."

Mäsiar forced the opening with his finger, and quickly counted the notes inside: two hundred and eighty quid.

"Equal shares?"

"Yours was a touch larger."

"But over a thousand quid between all of us. That's many a pretty penny."

"Very much so," Martinez agreed. "And all for a small amount of a chemical!"

Radovan snickered. "Not just any chemical, Lino," he said softly, stroking the bills with his finger. _"Bostridium botulinum. _It's a poison, and an incredibly lethal one at that."

In the moonlight, the smile crept over Lino's face. "So you mean…"

"Oh, aye," Radovan grinned. "We've just killed someone."

**

Many thanks to ThroughlySherlocked for the idea of the gang being involved in Carl Powers' murder. :D

This may or may not be a test by someone who may or may not be named James Moriarty for someone who may/not be named Sherlock Holmes.

[intensely denies saying that when asked]


	18. Part One: Lino Martinez

The Beginning of the Game, the Breaking of the Chain, Part One: Lino Martinez, the Head of the Dragon

18

"You want them eliminated, you say," Sherlock said thoughtfully, rolling the concept around in his head.

Mycroft nodded. "They've begun branching into illegal activities, drugs, poisons, chemicals, contraband. It's a quick step from smuggling to murder, after all."

"It'd be like fighting a dragon," Sherlock murmured. "Two of us, against six of them."

"We're better than they are. Smarter."

"They're stronger, physically. They've got us three to one, and you can't openly go against someone without displeasing someone else. So it's me against them. Are you trying to talk me into a suicide mission, brother?"

"You're the movement in the shadows, he who walks alone," Mycroft argued, leaning forward in his chair. "It's not a suicide mission. You can do it. I need your help."

Sherlock's eyes went mockingly wide.

"Come again? I don't think I heard you right."

"We both know you did," Mycroft snapped.

"Say that again- your exact words."

Mycroft gritted his teeth.

"I. Need. Your. Help."

Sherlock grinned.

"Something that could only be accomplished by He Who Walks Alone, the outcast nobody sees and nobody bothers to look for," he said, pressing his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees. "Six against one, all of them bigger and stronger than me."

He shook his head slightly.

"What could possibly go wrong?"

*

"Basic battle strategy," Sherlock said, flicking his thumb along his fingertips. "When faced with an opponent that outmatches you, go for the throat. The head is the vital point; without it, the body flails in the dark, its efficiency gone. It will sustain, briefly, but it is much less dangerous than it used to be."

"Unless it finds a new head."

"That is why you have to strike quickly, before it has a chance to begin to recover. Fast, hard, mercilessly. Plan it out in advance, go in, stick to the plan, adapt as necessary, get the job done, get out before anybody can pin it on you."

"You sound like you've had experience doing just such a thing. Now I'm worried. What have you been up to when I wasn't looking?"

Sherlock only gave him a look that adequately conveyed the thought _do you really want me to answer that?_

"No," Mycroft decided. "Don't."

Sherlock snickered quietly. "So we go for the head," he continued. "Disorient them, so they don't know what's coming next. Set the trap, the wolf steps into it, and the job only remains to finish it."

"And how would you finish it? To kill him would put yourself on the same level as him."

"Smuggling _is_ illegal, you know. I could set up a false job for him, and net him when he came to collect the payment."

He rubbed his hands together. "This should be interesting."

*

It took a month.

Thirty days for every possibility to be thought of, for contact to be established and an order for iodine (when he'd thought about it, he'd get the most use out of a good supply of iodine at the moment) to be placed. Four weeks to study and acquire a slight off-the-cuff accent, for the convenience of a disguise; thirty days of preparation and training, all for this.

On the night of the first real step, Sherlock stood in the doorway of his dormitory, turning back to give Mycroft one last look.

The elder Holmes met his eyes. "Go on," he said. "I'll be waiting in the wings, watching."

Sherlock smiled faintly, and walked out the door.

_Set game. Match._

*

The black cloak fluttered at his ankles as he walked, his eyes peering into the darkness of the school grounds from under the hood. His strides were purposeful, every motion calculated.

This was Sherlock Holmes, at his finest.

His fingers traced over the hilt of the improvised knife, but the time to draw it had yet to come. It rested comfortably on his right hip, easily accessed by pulling his arm in slightly.

He'd practiced the motion a thousand times, fully aware he'd need to have it down.

The meeting-place was deep inside the woods bordering the grounds, in a small clearing well away from any help.

At the edge of the forest, Sherlock raised a hand to his ear.

"I'm taking it off," he said under his breath. "It shows more than I thought it would, especially with the hood down."

_"Fine,"_ Mycroft's voice came over the earpiece. _"Keep it on you, though."_

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, taking off the incredibly minimalist headset and tucking it into one of his many inside-pockets.

*

Bored, Martinez leaned casually against a tree in the glade, picking dirt out from under his fingernails with a dagger, raising his head when the movement across the clearing caught his eye.

He stepped forward.

"You're late."

The stranger, identity concealed by a long black cloak, stopped after another step.

"Hardly. I arrived exactly when I meant to."

Distrust entered Lino's eyes; he tilted his head at the figure.

"We don't take kindly to those who speak in riddles," he said softly, stroking a finger along the spine of the blade.

"Save us the dance, Martinez," the stranger warned. "We both know there is no _we_ in this situation. There's only you and me."

Martinez stepped back, holding out the knife, the black blade gleaming in the moonlight.

"Symbolic," the stranger commented, drawing his own.

Lino's eyes narrowed. "A shiv? You expect a plastic shiv to hold against _me?"_

And he laughed.

Those frosted-pine-needle eyes gleamed as the stranger smirked. "I do."

Lino snorted. "Just who are you, to be so stupid?"

The stranger reached up with his free hand and pulled back the hood, causing Martinez to stagger, then press himself against the tree.

"He Who Walks Alone," Lino whispered, his hand shaking.

Sherlock bared his teeth in what could, in some unrefined circles, be called a grin.

"Quite."

And Martinez lunged.

Sherlock ducked under the knife, grabbed the hand that reached to seize his collar and twisted the wrist, causing Lino to yelp like a startled dog; he jumped back to evade another stab, seizing advantage of his lighter frame.

_Like a sparrowhawk against an eagle,_ he thought. _Strength has no effect when it has nothing it can exert force on. As long as I can keep away from him, I'm safe-_

The knife caught the back of his hand, scoring a fairly deep and long cut; Sherlock hissed quietly and stabbed out with his own, making Martinez retreat.

_Playtime's over. Offense. Attack. Now!_

_Focus on the weak left side, the damaged arm. Press forward. Relentless. No surrender. Again. Again. Again. Plastic's weaker than steel. Don't let his knife touch yours._

Martinez stepped back, making a wide slash with the knife; Sherlock danced back, the blade catching his jaw just slightly instead of his throat-

_Momentum. He's left himself wide open, can't recover fast enough- now's my chance, now, _now_-_

He pulled himself together, and lunged.

And the improvised shiv buried itself to the hilt in Lino's ribcage.

It was a nonlethal blow, Sherlock knew. He'd aimed for it that way. But Martinez would bleed quite a bit, enough to make him lose consciousness quickly.

But he wouldn't die.

He knelt down, seizing the knife and pulling it out before rifling through the thug's pockets. As a small trophy, he pocketed the bottle of iodine.

You just never knew when you might need some.

He stood, wiping at the cut on his jaw with the back of his hand before pulled the headset out from under his cloak.

He tapped a finger against the microphone.

_"Well?"_ Mycroft asked, having heard the whole thing.

Sherlock looked over the body of his felled enemy.

"Checkmate."

**

Guest reviewers: I am so, so sorry. I didn't realize what exactly the moderate reviews thing did. Now I do, so I turned it off.

Marie: If you ask so nicely… *grin* Lestrade will show up five years before the events of A Study in Pink- that's while Sherlock is still a druggie, mind you- and Mrs. Hudson is an unknown quantity, but Molly…

Well, if you love Molly, and since I like how adorably awkward she is around Sherlock with her little (not so much, we know how you feel, poor girl) crush on him, I'll find a way to fit it in.


	19. Part Two: Lukas Yannatos

Part Two: Lukas Yannatos, the Weak Point in the Chain

19

"You didn't say you'd been injured."

"You didn't ask," Sherlock said as he dipped a cotton swab into a smaller, now-diluted bottle of iodine.

"Is that really-"

"Yes," the younger brother snapped. "I don't even want to think about what that knife's gone through." Saying that, he pressed the swab deep into the cut on the back of his hand, swearing under his breath as he dragged it through. The cut on his jaw was considerably less painful.

"Minor wounds," Sherlock explained, discarding the now-bloodied swab and covering the iodine before pressing a strip of gauze to the wound, which refused to stop bleeding.

"You're dripping on the floor."

"Damn," Sherlock muttered.

For a moment, there was silence.

"Did they get him?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. On your signal, I put in an anonymous call to the police. They went and collected him. He's now in the hospital, shortly to be released into prison."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I love happy endings."

"So do I."

*

"So where are we striking next?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I thought you had a plan."

"I thought you were the one in charge of this fool's errand," Sherlock returned.

Mycroft tilted his head.

"We've cut off the head, eliminating Martinez," Sherlock said cautiously. "The next step would be to press the advantage, keep the attack going. Strike the weak link. Turn it. Now's the time."

"You're thinking about telling Lukas to desert."

"I'm going to tell Lukas to desert," Sherlock corrected. "It's going to collapse like a poorly built bridge. He's merely a mole, spying for both sides and hating his role in it. He deserves a chance to escape the thing he had no choice in entering."

"You pity him."

Sherlock bit his cheek. "Maybe I do."

*

So it was that when Lukas went to check the usual spot where Sherlock occasionally left his messages, he retrieved a small note.

_The usual place. Tonight. Bring nobody with you, and make absolutely certain you are not followed._

_-SH_

*

When he looked out from under the cover of the trees towards the meeting-place, Lukas warily watched the figure that stood silhouetted in the dark before making his move.

The ground gave abruptly right where Sherlock was standing, he knew, and led to a fifty-foot drop to a river below, a fall which neither of them had a desire to make.

"Lino's been captured," he said in way of announcing his presence unnecessarily as he walked towards the edge, stopping at Sherlock's side. "The coppers caught him only yesterday. He went out to exchange a fair-sized bit of iodine for a nice payment, and they got him somehow. He's in the hospital, too- stab wound, shoulder."

"Ribcage," Sherlock corrected, watching the water move below. "Right side. Nonlethal. Bled handsomely, though."

Lukas stared at him. "Who the bloody hell told you that?"

"Nobody did," Sherlock said softly. "I was the one who jabbed him."

He held up his hand, tilted his head so the cut on his jaw was more visible.

"And he got me in return."

Having lived in fear for a good portion of his life, Lukas was far from stupid.

"You… _you're_ the one who put him in a cage?"

"Yes. It took a month's preparation, and the acquiring of a slight Swedish accent. It was well worth it, however, as you can see."

Lukas stepped back. "Sherlock," he said quietly.

"I stabbed him with this." He drew the shiv and held it out towards Lukas. The blade was still covered in blood, small dents and chips showing where he'd parried Lino's dagger.

Lukas' eyes went as wide as an owl's. "My God," he managed.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, still watching the river as he sheathed the knife. "Nobody ever thinks me capable of it, do they? Havrskald thought I was easy prey, and I broke his jaw. Lino thought that I was too cowardly to face him, and I nearly killed him. I could have, in fact."

Like a deer in a car's headlights, Lukas was utterly still.

Sherlock pulled the bottle of iodine out from inside his coat.

"Lovely thing, iodine. It comes in solid, liquid and gas forms, and the mineral can be ground to a fine dust and dissolved into water…"

He shook the bottle, watching said dust shift.

"…or used in an explosive. They never mention that in chemistry class, do they? But if bathed in and added to the proper chemicals, one can make a rather effective bomb with it."

Lukas, for all appearances, was paralyzed.

He put it back inside his coat.

"Leave them, Lukas," Sherlock said in a tone, low and firm, that could only be described as an order. "If you value yourself, if there's any scrap left of _you_ in what they've made you to be, leave them."

"I can't, Sherlock." His throat felt dry; words were a struggle. "I can't. They said, they said that they'd kill me, torture my family if I turned on them-"

"Leave here, then," Sherlock insisted, stepping forward and putting himself much closer to the Greek so he could look him in the eye. "Leave this place, and don't look back. Drop out of the school, leave the damn country if you have to!"

"But where would I-"

"Go back to Greece, for Christ's sake!" Sherlock snapped. "Or move to Bulgaria, or go to London and fight tooth and nail for your place in the world! Don't stay here! _Get out!_ It's going to fall, Lukas. I'm going to bring them down like a faulty tower, one by one, until there's none left. Martinez was the first, but not the last. Don't fall with them."

He rested his hands on the Greek's shoulders.

"Don't make me destroy you, Lukas," Sherlock pleaded. "Please. Don't make me do that. You're better than that. Leave them. If not for yourself, for your family. For me."

Lukas' eyes glimmered in the moonlight as he blinked, trying to force back the tears.

"You're not one of them," Sherlock whispered. "You're not one of them. You're not one of the rats that skitter in the sewers. You have a chance to save yourself, to rise above it, to make yourself into something better. You can escape this, can't you _see?_ You have your whole life ahead of you, untainted by this!" Lukas was trembling violently now, and Sherlock just might have been doing the same. "Take it. Don't let them rule you." _The wheel may turn, and nothing may be new… but some things can be changed._

The two boys stood there, on a cliff drenched in silver light, both trapped in the shadows they'd been dragged into.

"Yes," Lukas whispered. "Yes. I'll do it."

**

Sherlock _cares! _:O

Hmm. This is the part where I decide whether or not to do the gangsters in order, or close my eyes and jab a stick. Viewer suggestions welcome; the only limit is that Mäsiar is last. Radovan is definitely, definitely last.


	20. Part Three: Francesco Vandaro

Part Three: Francesco Vandaro, the Spine of the Sword

20

"So. You convinced Lukas to leave."

Sherlock, from the comfortable position of lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, made an agreeable _m-hmm_ noise.

Mycroft, in the chair by the window, turned a page in the paper he was reading. "Must have been difficult. They had a strong hold on him."

"Quite."

Mycroft looked over at his brother. _Reluctant to talk about it. Interesting._

"What was it that made him stay?"

Sherlock bit his cheek. He'd promised himself not to tell, but…

"They said they'd kill him and torture his family if he deserted."

Mycroft was silent.

"Then it's all the more important we finish it quickly," he said.

"Yes." Sherlock brought his hands together, pressed his fingertips to his chin. "In order. Martinez, Lukas, Francesco Vandaro, Sergei Medvedev, Dagmar Zajic, and Mäsiar last."

"Why save him for the end?"

"Because he's the one that Lino answered to. Lino held charge, in the face of it, but behind the curtain, Radovan holds the power. Martinez was his mouthpiece, the one who took care of the trivialities. But he holds the controls, the others under his thumb."

"Then why didn't we go for him first?" Mycroft asked.

"Because he's too strong," Sherlock snapped. "He's too strong for me to take on. So I began taking down his web, one by one. Martinez was the first. Now he has to take care of things himself, and it exposes him more. Lukas was his spy; now he knows less and has to establish new contacts. Vandaro is the foot soldier, the one who they send out to deliver threats and collect blackmail. Take him out, and he's forced to send someone else out in his place. Their efficiency is already reduced, and once Vandaro is out, they'll be fumbling in the dark. It would take them a considerable amount of time to recover from that, even if I wasn't breathing down their necks. Considering that I am, it'll take them even longer."

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows slightly. "And what do the others do?"

"Medvedev is starting to take Lino's place. He's the one who was Martinez's companion, covered his back. With Martinez gone, and Vandaro soon to be, who's going to cover his? Dagmar doesn't have the muscle for it. Mäsiar won't bother himself."

Despite the morbid subject, Mycroft smiled. "And once he's brought out of his shell…"

"He's done for," Sherlock said, rolling over.

As he was on the very edge of sleep, he managed to concentrate enough to pick up Mycroft's last words.

"There's a new student coming in a few days," he said. "Name of Molly Hooper. Should be interesting."

*

The new student, to the first glance, was ordinary.

Red hair, gentle-looking face. _Longhaired cat at home, black. Well-cared for. Loved. Family well-off, and not afraid to spend some of it on their girl. _

Molly Hooper, Sherlock decided, turning away to go to his class, was quite standard.

He was wrong.

*

She was the first to approach him without malicious intent.

He'd been walking outside- taking the most out of a brief glimpse of spring- when he heard somebody coming up behind him, he turned sharply, his hand going to his hip.

She slowed down, stopping a small distance away.

"Sorry if I startled you," she said breathlessly. "But I don't think we've met. I'm Molly- Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock tilted his head, and raised his eyebrows.

"They haven't told you about me yet?" he queried. "You haven't heard the stories about who I am, what I've done?"

"I saw you looking at me earlier," she replied. "I asked someone who you were, and she said…"

She also tilted her head, looking at him quizzically.

"She called you _He Who Walks Alone."_

"She was right," Sherlock said coldly, turning away.

"I didn't believe her."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

"She said that you never speak to anyone, that you never smile or laugh," she continued, walking towards him, the snow crunching softly under her feet. "She said that they gave you a solitary dormitory because you have nightmares where you'd wake up screaming. She said that when you came back for fall term, you had a cut on your right arm so deep that it reached the bone."

"She was right," Sherlock repeated.

She was close to him now; he could hear her breathing. "She said that you know when there's someone close to you, as a deer senses the approach of a wolf. She said that you flinch when touched, and carry a knife."

"You have a good source of information."

"She said that you're Mycroft Holmes' brother, and that-" she looked behind herself, checking to make sure that they were alone- "you can read a person's life story from a single look."

He turned around then, looking her over fully with those eerily green eyes.

"She spoke the truth," he confirmed. "I know you're from a family that's well off, that you had a cat with long black hair. I know you're loved by your parents, that you usually prefer to be in control, but you're flexible about it. I know that right now you see me as an authority, but not whoever else you've been talking to, as you defied them to speak to me. Bad choice, by the way, as around here that's a cardinal sin. I know you have a secret liking for coffee, generous on the cream and sugar, and that you don't like the clothes your parents got to you wear to school but you would have felt guilty saying anything. I know you're interested in becoming a medical examiner, with a side affiliation for chemistry- good choice, but I wouldn't overexperiment with silver nitrate as you've been doing- at the stage you're at, you're about to combine it with iodine, which I don't recommend, unless you want to create an explosive, or an acid, depending on how much water you use."

"And I don't believe we've been introduced," he said, stepped forward and offering his hand. "I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

She took it, her mouth gaping slightly.

"Have a nice day, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said offhandedly, walking away.

*

_"Why,"_ Sherlock demanded, "are you still in my dormitory?"

Mycroft turned a page in the paper he was still reading- wait, it was a different one, but for Christ's sake, wasn't he bored with them yet?- before looking away from it.

"Nice to see you, too. I thought you'd be out later."

"Vandaro isn't ready yet. I told him I had something that would make handy blackmail. We're going to meet at one. It's only eleven, yet. There was nothing to do out there, so I came back here."

"And what is there to do here?"

In response, Sherlock hauled the Bunsen burner out from under his bed, causing Mycroft to eye him warily.

"Are you going to cause an explosion just to spite me?"

"Hardly." He fired it up, pulled out his knife, and began repairing the small nicks and scars from the fight with Martinez, something he hadn't found the time to do until then.

"Do you think you'll be needing that?"

Sherlock frisked the spine of the blade in the flame, then quickly pulled his finger across the spot, smoothing the mark back out again.

"Yes," he answered, scraping the plastic off of his fingertip with his thumbnail. "I think I will."

*

This was most likely going to be boring.

Vandaro was just the spine of the sword, the dead weight that added heft. He was a foot soldier, Sherlock thought as he walked through the woods towards the arrange meeting point. Foot soldiers were nothing.

This was going to be ridiculously _dull._

Foot soldiers had to be eliminated, true, but that didn't mean that it had to be-

He sensed, more than saw, the projectile. By dropping instantly to the ground, he evaded it.

It hit the tree behind him, exactly where his head would have been.

"Throwing knives," Sherlock said under his breath as he stood back up and ducked out of sight from the point of origin. _"Brilliant."_

Boldly, he darted out from his cover, seized the hilt of the knife, and pulled it out of the tree before ducking back into safety.

Too fragile for close quarters, he recognized, examining it quickly. But perfectly balanced, and a wickedly lethal thing to have flying at you.

He peered around the edge of the tree, and caught a glimpse of a face before he pulled back, another knife going by.

Maybe…

Sherlock readied the knife in his hand, and quickly stepping out from the tree's shadow, cocked his arm over his shoulder and threw it with every last bit of strength he had.

Vandaro was quick to dodge, but not quick enough to entirely evade, as evidenced by his muffled curse. The knife had fallen to the ground- not a solid hit, then, but just a graze.

It was a hell of a lot better than nothing, Sherlock decided, pressing himself against the trunk of another tree.

Small, skimming cut- right side, mostly likely, so his ability to throw might be hampered, just a bit. The wound would sting badly, and bleed a bit. So, he had the advantage then, having no- well, no _fresh_ wounds…

_The question,_ Sherlock thought, _is who makes the first move…_

The second knife that Vandaro had thrown was… fifteen feet away. If he moved quickly, he could get it, but the snow- and the dead leaves, where the trees had held it back from the ground- would show what he was doing.

_Quick. Three… two… one…_

…go.

He jumped forward, seizing the knife out of the snow and darting back to his hiding place without incident.

And that was cause for much more concern than if he'd been attacked. Adrenaline trickled into his blood, making him acutely aware of his senses: the grinding of the tree's bark against his shoulders with every breath he took, the way those breaths stung his lungs, reminding him was he was furiously _alive…_

Holding on to the new knife with a white-knuckled grip, Sherlock slowly turned around and stepped out from behind the tree.

It took him just a bit too long to realize that Vandaro had moved. It took just a bit too long for his eyes to follow the tracks in the snow, and for him to recognize the shape standing opposite him as human.

And in that instant, the knife sliced through the air and buried itself in his arm.

An involuntary yelp clawed out of his throat at the sudden, agonizing pain- _poisoned blade- _that clawed through his nerves and bit into his brain. He ducked into cover, his other hand shaking as he reached up to inspect the wound.

_Left arm, much too close to the heart to be remotely accidental. Barely three, maybe four inches off. Buried deep enough that it's probably-_ a slight twitch confirmed the theory- _touching the bone._

Goddamn, it hurts. 

"Damn good shot," Sherlock admitted under his breath as he pressed his fingers to the wound, hot blood already soaking through his jacket and steaming slightly in the cold night air.

It was morbidly fascinating.

_Don't pull it out, or it'll bleed even worse…_

"The game's over," Sherlock called, raising his voice so Vandaro could hear. "You've hit me better than I got you. It's time to close the distance and finish this, hand to hand. Or are you too much of a coward and not enough of a man to do it?"

There was silence.

"Set game," Vandaro said, in a signal they both understood.

"Match," Sherlock shouted back, and quickly turning around the trunk of the tree, threw the knife.

Vandaro snarled several violent oaths under his breath as he dodged it.

"I thought we'd agreed to fair play, Sherlock Holmes," he hissed as he drew a sturdier, bulkier knife from under his coat. "Hand to hand, the way it should be done. Or are you such a coward that you have to resort to lies to best me?"

Sherlock's eyes were cold, lethally cold, as he drew the white dagger from inside his jacket. "Your friends called me He Who Walks Alone when I faced them," he said, the two enemies beginning to slowly circle each other like wolves. "Interesting, that you should say my name."

Vandaro snorted. "Don't pretend that you didn't tell Yannatos to leave. We knew he was your worm."

"There's a lie," Sherlock grinned, even despite the fact that blood was running down his left arm and was on the verge of hitting his wrist. "You knew nothing of it until I told him to run. And do you know what I told him? _Escape it, because I'm going to take them down, one by one, and it's going to fall like a faulty tower."_

Vandaro bared his teeth. "Good luck with that."

"I don't need luck." Sherlock's eyes glinted in the moonlight as he tapped a finger against his temple. "I have this. My brain's better than yours, Francesco Vandaro. I can outsmart you and your little band of thugs, and I will."

Vandaro glared at him. "We'll crush you like a bug underfoot."

"That's what Martinez thought, and he's in a cage. If all goes well on my side, you'll be joining him."

"If all goes well on my side, you'll be going six feet under." Saying that, Vandaro lunged.

He hadn't expected it to happen quite so quickly; blood dripping from his fingers, Sherlock scrambled to the side, slashing blindly with his knife and feeling a small flare of satisfaction when it caught flesh.

_Don't lose your footing- if you hit the ground, you're gone-_

The dagger flashed in the moonlight, digging into the skin over Sherlock's collarbone before he realized it.

_Brain's slowing down- damn it._

And he fell.

And Vandaro was _there,_ so much bigger and more heavily muscled than him; the knife flashed again as it was pulled back for a killing blow-

Terrified, Sherlock shoved his shiv into Vandaro's chest.

_Left side of ribcage, close to the heart, but not close enough to puncture it. Might have hit a lung, might be lethal, might not be-_

The Italian dropped his knife (it caught the side of Sherlock's head, just above his ear, as he didn't have enough room to fully dodge it) and managed to pull back, collapsing next to him. Sherlock managed to crawl a bit away, before Vandaro could strangle or stab him.

It took an enormous effort, but he managed to gain his feet.

He staggered, then bent down, wrenching his knife out of the body. With shaking fingers, both hands covered in blood, he managed to pull the headset out from his jacket.

He pressed the microphone button.

"It's done," Sherlock breathed, fighting off pain. "He's done. We're… close enough to the spot. They'll find him."

_"Alright."_ A pause, as Mycroft processed his tone. _"There's something you're not telling me."_

"He… he got me." He looked at the knife still buried in his arm, the entirety of the blade hidden in his flesh. It might have actually _punctured_ the bone.

He could practically hear Mycroft becoming completely still. _"How bad?"_

"Bad," Sherlock breathed, and began the slow, incredibly long way back to the school. "Really bad."

_"Where are you? How much blood have you lost?"_

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, at the trail he was leaving. "I can't tell, because my jacket's soaked through. And some of it might be his."

_"His? Vandaro's? What the bloody hell have you done, Sherlock?"_

"I underestimated my prey." Saying that, he grabbed on to a branch with both hands and tried to regain his breath. If he lost consciousness… it was over.

"I think I made a mistake, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, bowing his head as he shuddered violently. "I think I'm going to die."

And as he started forward again- _don't stop moving-_ his vision flickered.

**

And that, my friend… is the perfect place to stop.

FIRST CLIFFHANGER! D: And I didn't even start the chapter intending to end with a cliffie! Then again, I intended for Molly to not exist and Vandaro to be boring. Sherlock, you dumbass. I still love you. Enough to kill you.

*delighted laugh*

Debate away.


	21. Part Four: Sergei Medvedev

Part Four: Sergei Medvedev, the Dragon in the Lair

[Or, 'Fighting Poison With Poison']

21

"Sherlock?"

Anxious- he would never admit it was fear he felt- Mycroft pressed his finger more firmly against the microphone on his headset.

_"Sherlock?"_

_He was right. It was a suicide mission. I sent him on a suicide mission. He survived so much, and I've killed him._

*

_"SHERLOCK!"_

Sherlock twitched, faintly. "What?" he said roughly.

_"Don't do that again,"_ Mycroft hissed.

"What?" Sherlock snarled again, barely managing to keep moving by holding on to branches.

_"Not answering, for Christ's sake. Don't just stay silent."_

"I could barely hear you," Sherlock spat. "If you were the one with a knife sticking out of his arm, you'd have bigger priorities than replying to what you thought was feedback."

_"Damn it,"_ Mycroft cursed quietly. _"How far out are you?"_

"I haven't the faintest idea. I'm just hoping that I'm going in the right direction."

_"Following your tracks back would be a fairly sure way of not getting lost."_

"What do you take me for?" Sherlock snapped as the handle of the dagger caught on a pine bough and pulled at his skin. "Do I _sound_ like a total idiot?"

_Knives do more damage going out than going in…_

It was nearly impossible to resist seizing the damn thing and pulling it out of his arm.

_"Did you say that you have a knife sticking out of your arm?"_

"Are your ears faulty? Of course I did. He threw it at me, missed my heart, and it buried itself nice and deep into my arm. I'm fairly sure it's embedded in the bone."

A pause.

_"I'm sorry."_

"Say that again when I can hear you properly," Sherlock quipped. "I'm fairly sure I just heard you apologize, and that couldn't possibly be true."

Another pause.

_"Are you still there?"_

"Obviously," Sherlock hissed, stressed the syllables. "Even if I died, I would still be _here."_

_"You're a bloody cheerful soul."_

"Bloody, yes. Cheerful, no. Shut up, Mycroft."

And blessedly, his brother complied.

*

The knife had been poisoned.

Sherlock was certain of it.

Fire was gradually creeping along his veins, originating from the wound in his shoulder.

And there was the paradox: pull out the knife, and cut off the supply of the toxin. Keep it in, and hold back the massive blood flow that would be released.

A lesser man would have just ripped the thing out and welcomed unconsciousness, seeking respite from the agony.

Sherlock Holmes was not ordinary.

_It would be better to have whatever it is in my system and survive long enough to make it back to the school, than to cut off the poison and ensure my own death…_

_You definitely owe me, Mycroft._

When he tried to grab on to a branch with his left hand and the muscles convulsed suddenly, not reacting as they should, it became painfully clear.

_Snake venom._

_Hemotoxin, or phospholipase. Possibly both. Brilliant idea. If he'd hit my heart, it'd be going through my entire bloodstream and causing self-sabotage. _

Well, there it was. If he didn't reach the school soon- he had no idea how far out he was- he'd die.

_Lovely._

*

A strange weight centered somewhere in his ribcage, Mycroft pressed the microphone button on his headset once again.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

No reply.

Slowly, Mycroft took off the headset and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the darkness. "I'm so sorry."

Unconsciously mirroring his brother, he turned the chair, looking out the window as he brought his hands together and pressed his fingers to his lips.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said to himself, very quietly, like a prayer. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

*

It was slow, going through the woods with a dagger buried in his arm. Arduous.

Painful.

It was comparable to having the blood in his upper left arm and shoulder replaced with liquid flames.

Every step was a struggle.

_Again. Again. Another. Come on, you've done this before…_

He had a flash, suddenly, of another forest, of leaving a trail through the snow, blood flowing like water from a gash in his arm-

_Don't think of that, not now-_

Sherlock knew how to shove aside pain to face and harness fear, to throw it into a corner of his mind and ignore it.

_Keep going. Don't stop._

A desperately needed reserve of adrenaline sparked, and finally subduing the agony, Sherlock broke into a sprint.

And finally, finally, the school loomed out of the darkness, light glowing in the windows faintly.

He made it to the building- he'd never know just how- and going for the closest door, pulled it open and darted inside, taking a deep breath of warm air.

The sharp human yelp made him turn on a dime, pressing his back against the wall and drawing his knife before he realized he'd done it and pointing it at the source of the noise.

His chest heaving, his hand shaking badly, she still recognized him.

"Sherlock?" Molly managed.

His eyes widened; slowly, his hand lowered until he quickly sheathed the knife.

"Oh, my God," she breathed, still having not regained herself after the shock of him nearly running into her. "What happened to you?"

The knife was _still_ stuck in his arm, there was blood on the left side of his head, and his jacket was soaked through with it. His hands were entirely red.

"I underestimated my enemy," Sherlock panted, collapsing fully against the wall as energy deserted him. "And it has a high price."

Molly Hooper may have seemed delicate, maybe even fragile to the outside world, but buried deep in the soft exterior were nerves of steel. She stepped forward, putting her hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Come to my dormitory," she said firmly, steering him slightly and forcing him to step forward. "I can help you there."

Sherlock blinked several times, breathing through his mouth as his lungs didn't seem to be working quite properly. "I…"

"Come with me," Molly ordered, in a tone that left no room for second-guessing.

*

The world was fading.

Sherlock's eyes were nearly closed as he robotically followed Molly's directions, his senses becoming increasingly dulled. He didn't hear it when she shut the door behind them, didn't quite feel it when she led him to a chair so he could collapse into it.

He did feel it, however, when she shoved a syringe in his right arm and depressed the plunger.

His eyes opened, fully, as his system revved back to full.

"Adrenaline," she explained, discarding the syringe. "Quite effective."

He watched as she opened a drawer in a desk across from him, digging out various things. "How did you…"

"That's irrelevant," she interrupted, holding a needle up to the light before evidently being satisfied with it.

He didn't ask the question that loomed prominently at the forefront of his mind as he watched her move about quickly: _why? Why are you doing this?_

"Do you have any idea how far in the knife is?" she asked, checking something blocked from his line of sight by her body.

"Going by blade length, it's definitely pierced the bone, possibly reached the marrow. I didn't pull it out because…"

"You would have bled out if you had," she said simply. "Good choice."

"It's poisoned," he murmured, leaned his head back and closing his eyes.

The quiet sounds she had been making stopped suddenly.

"Poisoned?" she repeated. "With what?"

"Snake venom. It's either a hemotoxin or a phospholipase. It's destroying the muscles in my left arm, and working its way into my shoulder."

"Why didn't you _say_ so?" she demanded, her footsteps sounding sharp on the floor as she walked to him.

He had very little warning as she pressed her fingers on both sides of the blade, and presumably grabbing it with her other hand, quickly pulled it out of his arm.

Sherlock's eyes flashed open; he had to bite his tongue to hold back a scream, hard enough that he tasted blood.

"Couldn't have warned me?" he managed after a moment.

"Sorry," Molly murmured, setting the knife on the table. "But it had to be done."

She picked up the needle, and he understood what she meant to do with it; he watched, focused intently on blocking out the pain, trying desperately to lose himself in the oddly comforting motions of her fingers as she probed deep inside the wound, stitching back muscle and tendon and nerve, bit by bit, with more care than anybody had ever shown him, from the inside out.

He watched as she competently closed the cut, pressing yet another strip of gauze to it.

"Care to tell me how you ended up with a knife stuck in your arm?"

Sherlock bit the corner of his lip. "It's a long story."

She looked up at him. "I've got time."

He took a deep breath. "Have you ever heard of anyone named Francesco Vandaro?"

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Vaguely."

"I thought he was just dead weight, adding force when it was needed," Sherlock muttered. "He's part of a gang of six. I'd already take out the first two: Lino Martinez, and Lukas Yannatos. I thought he was going to be easy. I underestimated him, badly."

"Oh."

"He ambushed me, before the meeting-place I'd told him for some supposed blackmail material that never existed in reality. He had throwing knives, and caught me by surprise when I stepped out of cover during the fight to try to pinpoint his location. Poor decision, as you can see."

"And the other two marks?"

"Close quarters. He was stronger than me, caught my collarbone in fair combat. Here…" He brushed a finger over the cut that stretched from just behind his left eye to the back of his skull. "He was on top of me. I stabbed him, and he dropped his knife. Rather clumsy on both sides, as I didn't have the room to evade it."

"And by the way," he said suddenly, switching off into a new branch of conversation, "I lied out the iodine and silver nitrate."

She blinked. "What?"

"Previously, I've been unable to get my hands on both chemicals at the same time. In theory, mixing the two in a solution of water and applying it to a wound would cause devastating pain, although iodine is already a moderately effective torture tool. I wanted to see if you actually tried it, as it would show on your clothes, no matter the result." Very intentionally obviously, he looked at her sleeves, now stained with his blood. "As neither compound is present on you, you didn't try it, which shows that you consider my opinion to be of some import."

There, he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"I…" Molly was quite speechless, and rather unsure of what an appropriate response would be.

"Phosphorus shows some promise as an explosive, however," Sherlock continued. "And sulfur never fails when used properly. As I've only had diluted liquid iodine to experiment with before, the results of my tests have to be considered null and void by their very nature."

Ignoring the flaring pain in his arm when he moved it, Sherlock pressed his fingertips together.

"But _would_ iodine and silver nitrate create an explosion?" he wondered. "Therein lays the question."

He slanted her a look. "Do you have any weak points on the skin of your fingers?"

"No."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said simply. "Also, silver nitrate is very effective at clotting wounds, even though it's only recommended for large wounds in birds. It's a favorite of falconers, for treating bites their hawks suffer in pursuit of game."

Somehow, Molly managed to find her voice. "How d'you know that?"

"Because I remember what I've seen." Again, he tapped a finger against his temple. "I've got a sort of mind palace up here where I store things. It's a memory technique- if I put something in there, all I have to do is find the way back to it again."

Again, Molly wasn't quite sure what the appropriate response was.

"But first…" He drew the headset out from under his jacket, noting absently it had somehow become bloodstained.

"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock said conversationally. "Did you get sick of me so quickly?"

[I was so badly tempted to put "Hello, brother dear! How _are_ you?" right here, and even typed it three times, but it just didn't fit. D:]

*

When one thinks that one has sent one's younger brother (by seven years) to his death, even Mycroft Holmes will feel guilty.

When one spontaneously receives a message over a discarded headset from said younger brother (by seven years), even Mycroft Holmes with be in the hold of a dangerous mix of emotions.

Fury. Relief. Embarrassment. Perhaps circling back to fury by now. Perhaps allowing a bit of ridicule of sneak in and take hold.

Because this is your brother, and you were arrogant enough to presume him dead, when he actually does have sufficient skills to wriggle out of a tight spot.

Yes; when one underestimates the younger brother that nearly died because _he_ underestimated someone else, it is handsomely ironic, and embarrassingly so.

Mycroft seized the headset off of the desk, quickly cycling through the aforementioned, and decided to let the fury show, just for an instant.

"Why the bloody hell didn't you contact me earlier?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "There was the minor fact that I was dying, Mycroft."

"You're obviously not dead now."

_"That_ is a matter of perspective, but I digress. There has been a… change in the plans."

Mycroft tilted his head. "Oh?" he challenged.

"Yes." Sherlock met Molly's eyes, and smiled. "Molly Hooper isn't nearly what she seems."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that she saved my life."

There was silence.

"There's also the small matter that the knife that Vandaro so kindly threw at me was poisoned," Sherlock commented offhandedly. "Snake venom, most likely- either a hemotoxin or a phospholipase, possibly both. Conveniently, I'm under the effects of adrenaline of the moment, but I imagine the pain of that will settle in soon."

Mycroft stared blankly at the window he'd been pensively looking at up until that moment.

"So we need to move quickly," Sherlock said in the same tone one might use to say that it would be best to get inside before it rained. He covered the microphone with his hand.

"Have you met a girl, blonde, blue eyes, timid as a rabbit," he asked Molly, "name of Lydia Martensson?"

Molly blinked in surprise.

"Actually," she said slowly, "I have."

[I'm tempted to split the chapter here. However, this is technically a part of _The Beginning of the Game, the Breaking of the Chain,_ and a part of a part just doesn't work. I suppose I could call it "Act II", but a _part_ is usually a piece of an _act,_ so it'd have to be _act four, part II…_ that would involve fiddling with the other chapter titles, which requires an internet connection, which has gone haywire. Damn!]

Part II: A Race Against Time

"We strike fast, blindside him before he knows what's happened," Sherlock explained, pacing anxiously in his dormitory. Molly sat on the edge of the other bed; Mycroft had yet to move from the chair. "She'll trust you more than me, Molly. I'm He Who Walks Alone, the movement in the shadows, the thing they all fear. You… you're the opposite of me."

He paused at that conclusion, gave her an odd look, and then continued his pacing.

"How much adrenaline did you give him?" Mycroft asked Molly under his breath.

"Quite a bit," she breathed back. "Is he always like this?"

"Not quite as bad as this. Sleep deprivation gives him more energy, somehow, and the fact that he's only got a few hours at most until the venom shows its damage is probably helping to fuel him."

"I can hear the two of you gossiping," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft only raised his eyebrows in a coolly sophisticated motion; Molly muttered an apology and gave him her attention.

"As I was _saying,"_ Sherlock continued, "She'll trust Molly more than me. If you're the one to go down and tell her that she needs to spend the night outside of her dormitory, she'll be more inclined to believe you."

"It's half-three in the morning," Mycroft pointed out. "Most normal people, such as her, will be sleeping."

"She's the girlfriend of a Russian gangster," Sherlock pointed out as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She won't be sleeping at half-three in the morning. Even if she is, she'll be sleeping lightly, wondering if anybody will be coming for her tonight."

At that thought, Molly shivered.

"She's going to be jumpy, afraid," he said to Molly. "You're good at being calm and soothing-" (she didn't need to ask how he knew that) "so put that to use. Take the edge off of her nerves somehow."

"And then what?' Mycroft asked loftily. "Where would she go?"

Sherlock brought his hands together and pressed his fingers to his lips. "Bring her here."

_"Here?"_ Mycroft spat.

"God knows why they gave me an extra bed, but it's over there," Sherlock quipped with a wave of his hand towards Molly. "It's functional. She can stay there."

Mycroft looked at him incredulously. "And you expect a terrified young Norwegian girl to automatically accept the fact of sleeping in the same room as He Who Walks Alone, vigilante and suspected murderer, with confirmed violent tendencies?"

Sherlock stopped, looking at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. "Problem?"

"None at all," Mycroft replied.

The comment stung deep, but Sherlock twitched his shoulders and dismissed it.

"Can you convince her to come here?" he asked Molly.

"Yes," she answered. "I'm nearly sure."

"Do you know where her dormitory is?"

"Yes," she repeated, standing. "I'll go."

Sherlock watched her leave.

"She has our mother's name, the girl," Mycroft pointed out quietly.

Sherlock bit his lip. "I noticed. But what purpose could it serve? What point is there? How could it possibly be related?"

"I don't know," Mycroft admitted. "It could just be coincidence. Once in a blue moon, such a thing does happen."

"It just doesn't feel right," Sherlock muttered, still pacing. "Right side of the desk, three drawers down. Syringe."

Warily, Mycroft opened said drawer, pulling out the syringe and offering it. "Dare I ask why?"

Sherlock threaded the point into the inside of his left elbow, quickly drawing a blood sample.

"Move."

"What?"

"I said, _move."_

Mycroft stood and stepped to the side; Sherlock instantly dropped into the chair, pressing his eyes to the microscope that stood on the desk as he put a bit of his blood on a slide and began examining it.

"Again: Why?"

"The knife was poisoned, Mycroft. How many times do I have to tell you? The quicker I can isolate the toxin, the better."

*

The door was plain, wooden, and as simple as they came.

Symbolically so.

Molly took a deep breath, biting her lip nervously.

Only a few hours ago, her life had been normal. Now, she was part of this strange game; cloak and dagger, secrets and lies, dancing on the edge of a spider's web, praying to not get caught.

She raised her hand and knocked on the door.

It cracked infinitesimally, blue eyes peering at her through the slit.

"It's me, Lydia," Molly said in a tone she hoped was reassuring. "Molly Hooper."

The door opened a bit wider.

She hadn't taken a good look at the girl earlier, but now she did; tall, slender, bright sky-blue eyes and blonde hair that reached her waist.

"If I told you that people were coming for you," Molly said softly, gently pressing her fingertips against the door and opening it a bit further, "If I told you that Sergei had someone breathing down his neck and you had a chance to escape, would you believe me?"

Those brilliant eyes narrowed; Lydia stepped back, her fingers brushing her left hip and drawing a knife hidden there.

"I would doubt you," she said slowly, her home country still present in her voice, speaking of strength and valor. "But at the same time, I would be inclined to believe you. Sergei Medvedev is one who walks in the shadows, and those who walk in shadows are oftentimes consumed by them."

"And if I told you that you are a key player in the game, and that we needed you to finish him?" Molly inquired. "If I told you that if you follow me, you're turning your back on him, and helping to end it?"

Lydia leaned back slightly. "Lino ended up in a cage. Lukas disappeared. The next logical step would be Francesco, but I have not heard anything of him-"

"Francesco was defeated tonight, in fair combat."

Lydia's eyes widened briefly.

"So they're moving faster," she said softly. "Very well, then. I will follow you, Molly Hooper."

*

Sherlock looked up when the door was opened, and Lydia stopped dead in her tracks.

"He Who Walks Alone," she breathed.

Sherlock, very intentionally, gave her a full look-over. "Quite."

_"You're_ the one who- who-"

"Don't stutter, Lydia. It doesn't suit you."

She turned to Molly. "_He's_ the one behind this?"

"Yes," Molly said simply.

"I hate to say I told you so," Mycroft remarked under his breath, shifting the paper he was holding slightly so he could look at Lydia without her seeing him. "But I did."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered.

"I refuse to-"

"You said you'd follow me," Molly pointed out. "To stop Sergei, you said you'd follow me."

Lydia scowled. "Yes, but I didn't expect-"

"You didn't expect He Who Walks Alone?" Mycroft asked coolly, setting the paper aside, letting her see him fully and causing her to jump back. "Or me? When one is trying to fight demons, you often have to make a pact with the devil."

Lydia took another step back, her eyes wide. "Mycroft… Why are you here?"

"Because I asked my brother to help me take down Sergei's cult," he said in a tone that explained that there would be no doubt in this situation of who was in charge. "Because I, for once, needed his help. Because he is the movement in the shadows, the silhouette in the night, and he goes where I cannot."

Slowly, she dragged her eyes off of Mycroft to look at Sherlock, who was still hunched over his microscope.

"Forgive me. I spoke irrationally."

He lifted his head, met her gaze.

"Apology accepted," he said smoothly, going back to his work.

*

"The knife that Francesco threw at you was poisoned."

Sherlock, again, looked over at her. "How do you know?"

"By the fact that you're quite obviously testing a sample of your own blood- I saw you draw another one a few minutes ago," Lydia pointed out. "I can see the stitches on your arm, and Molly is still carrying the knife. As I recognized it as one of Francesco's, it would be safe to say that he was the one to wield it against you. You're trying to match the toxin to anything you can find. I can tell you right now you won't be successful."

Sherlock gave her his full attention. "Oh?"

"Dagmar keeps a snake. It's a hybrid between a cobra and a viper, I'm not sure which. It's got black scales, and it's thin as a whip, nearly ten feet long. Highly poisonous; a rare, if not unique blend of hemotoxin and phospholipase, causing hemorrhage and death of muscle and blood cells."

Sherlock disengaged himself from the microscope. "Lovely."

"It's caused death in creatures as large as elk, as far as we've tested it," Lydia added. "But fortunately for you, I was often tasked with handling the beast, so I refined some of its venom into a condensed, more potent antidote."

She drew a small vial out from her pocket, tossing it to him with a flick of her wrist; Sherlock deftly caught it.

"I imagine that'll save your life," she finished as he drew a new syringe out of the desk-drawer.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned, "are you _really_ going to just blindly trust her like this?"

As he filled the syringe, Sherlock met his brother's eyes.

"Do I have anything to lose?"

He inserted the needle into a spot just beside the stab mark, and pressed the plunger.

Relief was instantaneous.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sincerely.

Lydia gave him a thin-lipped smile. "You're welcome."

When something sparked in Sherlock's eyes and he held the syringe to the light, regarding it in an almost philosophical manner, Mycroft understood immediately.

"And your newfound theory is…?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, considering the syringe.

"What if we beat Medvedev at his own game?"

*

"Fighting poison with poison," Sherlock remarked as he was once again pacing across the room. "It makes perfect sense."

"Of course it does," Mycroft commented. "But we don't really want to kill him, do we?"

"Vandaro tried to kill me, didn't he?"

"True."

"But you're right. Killing him would only serve to lower us to their level. But a tranquilizer…"

"And just how do you expect to get it into his system?"

Sherlock smiled deviously.

"The same way he got the poison into mine."

"The antidote will only help your system fight off the venom once it hits something vital," Lydia interjected from across the room. She'd collapsed dramatically onto the spare bed, now feigning sleep occasionally. "It won't actually nullify the effects."

He stopped, looking at her suddenly.

"And you're telling me this _now?"_ Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"Yes," Lydia replied lazily. "It doesn't actually affect me that much if you live or die. You're He Who Walks Alone. I'd never even seen you up close until tonight."

Mycroft coughed slightly in surprise when Sherlock said something under his breath that remains unfit to be transcribed here.

"So basically the deadline still remains," Sherlock concluded. "Either until the adrenaline wears off or the venom reaches my heart, whichever comes first."

"How can you possibly-" Molly started to ask.

"-set a trap, bait it, and convince Sergei Medvedev to step into it inside of three hours?" He glanced at the clock. "More to the likes of two, now. How do you convince a wolf to walk into a trap within two hours without putting yourself in the line of fire? The answer is simple. You can't."

He stopped his pacing by Mycroft's chair (although it was properly his) and held out his hand.

"Your mobile."

Slowly, Mycroft drew it out of his pocket. Sherlock quickly snatched it out of his hand.

_Got something of yours you might want back._

_-SH_

The reply took a moment.

_Oh? And what might that be?_

Sherlock took a deep breath. _Doesn't sign his texts. Interesting._

_The Jewel of Norway._

_-SH_

A pause.

_Who are you? What have you done with Lydia?_

His left hand was trembling, just slightly. Mycroft was the only one who noticed.

_He Who Walks Alone. The girl isn't yours anymore, Sergei. She's free. _

He paused briefly.

_Unless you care to come and retrieve her?_

_-SH_

_You couldn't take me in a fight. Name the place._

Again, Sherlock hesitated.

_The edge of the woods on the school grounds. Now._

_-SH_

He shut the phone, handed it to Mycroft, quickly snatched something out of the desk, and walked out the door.

"Well?" Lydia asked.

Mycroft flicked it back open, reading through the texts. A weight seemed to fall in his chest.

"He's gone to finish it."

*

Part III, Final

Sherlock waited.

He stood, alone in the dark, the cold air brushing against the cut in his arm and numbing it. It did nothing to dull the sensation of returning warmth trickling through the veins in his arm, or the small warning in the back of his head that if the adrenaline were to give suddenly, he would die.

"I know you're out there," he called softly.

Medvedev stepped out of the shadows, his eyes blazing with fury.

"So what'll it be?" Sherlock tilted his head. "Poison, or a blade?"

Sergei flexed his fingers. "I was thinking more along the lines of strangling you."

"Original," Sherlock commented, subtly fingering something in his coat pocket. "None of your friends have tried that yet."

_This is going to be unpleasant. This is going to be highly, highly unpleasant._

It happened almost in slow motion.

Sergei lunged forward; Sherlock feigned terror, widening his eyes and deliberately not moving fast enough.

When Medvedev's hand closed around his throat, predictably cutting off his air, he pulled the syringe out of his pocket.

He had to twist his arm painfully to do it, but he shoved it into Sergei's throat and pushed down the plunger.

Medvedev staggered back, releasing Sherlock as he did so; he collapsed briefly, falling to his knees before turning to watch what happened, the now-empty syringe still in his hand.

"Can't breathe properly?" Sherlock taunted, his voice a bit rough. "Muscles freezing up on you?"

Medvedev clutched vainly at his neck, trying to breathe through his mouth.

"It's a paralytic, spiked with a tranquilizer," Sherlock said smoothly, standing as Sergei fell. "You'll pass out, due to lack of air. It's quite likely you'll go into a coma. You just might die."

As Sergei watched him, panic in his eyes, the sky reflecting in them as he lay sprawled in the grass, Sherlock walked to his side.

"You'll quite likely have a seizure before you lose consciousness," he added. "But first…"

He brushed his fingers over his collarbone.

When he walked away, a message was clearly written in blood on the body.

_Checkmate._

Longest chapter I've ever written. Shebam.

[While several people have guessed Molly's purpose, I don't think anybody expected this. Awesome!Molly! to the rescue! Thankyouverymuch to Marie for expressing a desire for the character. Many apologies to Lo613 for the faulty formula. I look up Russian and Slovakian names, check on arteries that can be severed in a certain area, and even research snake venoms for my pieces- and it's the ONE THING I DON'T FRIGGING CHECK that hamstrings me? Damn. And I don't have internet right now. But if you do end up experimenting, I am interested in what happens when iodine and silver nitrate are combined, and what happens when water is introduced into the mix. I will try to find an answer, however. The part about falconers using silver nitrate on their hawks' wounds is true. Now I need to find a real explosive formula, to compensate for the false one. Which will probably show up in part five. Which may or may not be a continuation of this long-ass chapter that's getting even longer as I type this note.]

(Pal of mine IRL read some of the first chapter of this and asked me if I was paid for this. When I said no, he sounded rather incredulous, and asked if I got a reward, or anything- anything at all. Then he was like: "So you're basically doing it for the people?"

"Yep."

LOVE YOU ALL, READERS.)


	22. Part Five: Dagmar Zajic

Lo613: As I know next to nothing about chemistry (it's one of those things where I knew practically zero about it until a writing piece required me to research it), since my science course has only branched to earth and physical science so far, this is the part where I re-read your comment like a billion times. Thankyouverymuch for the fiftieth review (woo!) and a basic guide to things that go boom.

Boom = Fun. Hands down.

Part Five: Dagmar Zajic, the Hare

22

"What I would give," Sherlock murmured, "for some francium, at this moment…"

Lydia gave all appearances of sleeping, and Molly had apparently forgotten to go back to her own dormitory, as she'd gradually slumped against the wall and given in to exhaustion.

Freakishly, the two Holmes brothers remained above such a paltry thing.

"Dare I ask why you have a desire for francium?" Mycroft wondered, turning _yet another damn page_ in his paper.

"Dare I ask how you can still be staring at the damn newspapers after fifteen fecking hours?"

"It's the same paper. I just switch out the cover every three hours. I use the time to think, or watch you."

Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope briefly.

"Creep."

"Yes, it is rather odd behavior."

*

_Wait for it…_

_Wait…_

…Yes.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder, biting his cheek to hold back a smile when he saw that Sherlock had finally run himself into the ground, his head resting on his shoulder (which, seeing the angle of his arm, stretched out by the microscope, would cause stiffness given time).

When he woke up, there would be pain, Mycroft knew; one did not go through the sudden hemorrhage and following death of a large amount of the muscles in the arm and shoulder without an intense amount of pain.

But for now, he thought, all was well.

Sherlock was, for the moment, safe and fairly sound.

"You're a bloody contrary soul," he said softly. "Surviving against the odds, no matter what. Snake venom, blood loss, everything on the side that you're not, and you still made it."

He set aside his paper, absentmindedly tapping his fingers together to pass the time.

And in the night, Mycroft Holmes kept watch.

*

It started when Molly leaned just a bit further forward, stretching her spine uncomfortably so that she instantly woke up, her shoulders hitting the wall audibly.

That, predictably, jolted Sherlock out of whatever dream-world he'd been in, causing him to look for the source of the noise like a startled deer.

He grimaced, turning his head, which make his neck crack loudly.

"That sounded painful," Mycroft commented.

"It wasn't," Sherlock muttered, baring his teeth as the dull but intense pain in his shoulder made itself known. He slowly lifted his arm off of the desk, carefully putting the joint through its paces.

Concerned, Mycroft watched. "Are you alright?"

"Me?" Sherlock trembled slightly. "Yeah, yeah. Fine."

There was the small fact that he'd dug his fingernails hard enough into the desk to leave marks.

"Focus," Mycroft said quietly.

That, he knew, was what Sherlock needed to hear.

"Right," Sherlock decided, carefully blocking off the pain. "So. We take the next step, hold momentum, don't give ground."

"You mean to take down Dagmar, so soon after the other two?" Lydia queried, apparently having been listening to their conversation.

Sherlock, unsurprised, nodded. "We've taken two in one night. There's no reason to back down now. They'll be on alert, but incredibly disoriented, trying to adjust to the cut in manpower. The more we wait, the more time they have to recruit someone new."

"Dagmar often sets his snake on people who are after them," Lydia pointed out.

"Then we'll just have to kill it."

Lydia sat up, looking over at him. "You _do_ realize that the beast is ten feet long, and highly toxic?"

"I do."

"So just how do you suggest going about the task?"

Sherlock pressed his fingers together, and his lips curved.

"Isn't it obvious, Lydia? We go for the head."

*

"The snake is his obsession," Lydia said as Sherlock peered into his microscope, thinking intensely. "He spends every free moment he has with it, training it. I was given the details of feeding the beast."

"Is it free-range?" Sherlock asked, switching out a slide.

It was right there was Mycroft realized that he and Molly had simply temporarily failed to exist in Sherlock's mind.

"Mostly. It wanders by day, following Dagmar when it can. It comes back to the basecamp at night, curls up by the fire like a dog."

Like a long, black, scaly dog, she remembered, thinking of the immense pile of _animal_ that had so often haunted her nightmares.

"He calls it_Ú__mrtí Sledovat."_

Sherlock ceased to move for a moment.

_"Death Shadow?"_ he asked.

"Not just," Lydia said. "More like... the shadow that precedes death. The pursuit of death, following it."

"Fitting."

"Quite."

*

When she finally grew tired of staring at the wall and taking countless small naps, Molly stood.

"I'm going for a walk," she announced.

Sherlock made a vague _m-hmm_ sound, still hunched over his microscope (really, what could he _possibly_ still be looking at?). Affronted, Molly departed.

"You're analyzing the proteins you found on the blade," Lydia said the moment she was sure Molly was out of earshot. "You're trying to trace back where it's been, to find where the basecamp is."

Surprised, Sherlock looked over at her. "Yes."

Mycroft, very carefully, pretended to be asleep.

"Dagmar has guard duty tonight. He'll be out, and his snake will be scouting ahead of him. They'll be prime targets."

*

Sherlock was such an _idiot!_

Surely that was something more to do than just sit around! There had be more that could be done than just _waiting, _doing nothing!

She walked through the woods, going deeper than she'd ever gone before.

Christ, couldn't they _see_ how boring it was? Sherlock just sitting there, not even letting her help, that Lydia girl lying around, making little comments (and getting replies, that wasn't fair) and Mycroft reading whatever the hell it was?

It was mind-numbing, that was what it was, something that made the brain cells rot, made her feel useless. Who knew, this Dagmar Zajic person and his snake might not even _exist-_

When something hissed on her right, her blood turned to ice.

And she was face-to-face with _him._

*

Ironically, it was Lydia who pointed it out.

Sherlock paused in his examinations, his fingers stopping their quick motions; Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed, just a bit, in a way that didn't give away his act.

"Did you hear that?" she asked.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, standing and lifting the window slightly. It was surprising how much time had passed; the sun was low on the other side of the horizon. "It sounded almost like…"

Unease flashed deep in his mind.

"…a human scream."

*

Zajic flicked a finger along the spine of the wicked-looking dagger in his hand, baring his teeth in a terrifying grin.

"So, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way," he said, his voice ridiculously calm, as if they were debating the weather. Bohemia was woven into his voice, a rough edge that landed roughly on Molly's nerves. "We've got several options. Úmrtí here-" the hissing had crept behind her now, slowly circling- "could simply bite you. You know his poison; it causes excruciating agony. I could just torture you with that. That would be easy.

"Option two. I slowly carve you to pieces with this knife, with the possibility of you living if you tell me what I want to know."

He raised the knife- short, curved blade, one edge- and tapped a finger on the hilt.

"I'll ask you now, and perhaps we won't have to make a decision at all," Dagmar added, still wearing that horrid smile. "I've seen you in the company of He Who Walks Alone. Sherlock Holmes. Care to tell me about him?"

In that instant, Molly knew that so far in her life, this would be the most important thing she would do.

She spat in his face.

And she ran.

Shocked, Dagmar stood still, briefly, before wiping off the saliva.

"Option three, pursuit?" he asked her retreating form, too quietly for her to hear. "They don't call me the Hare for nothing."

He sheathed the knife. "Challenge accepted."

*

"But who…?" Lydia wondered. "Who would be stupid enough to walk in the forest?"

Sherlock had been pacing; now, he stopped.

"Damn it," he said quietly. "I watched her go, and I didn't do a single thing about it."

"What? Who?"

"Molly," he snapped. "It was Molly."

*

A minute later, his coat now weighed down by a few more _questionable_ items, Sherlock opened the door.

"Stay here," he said to Lydia.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course."

And of course, a few minutes after he slipped out, she followed.

And a bit after that, so did Mycroft.

*

She'd never ran that fast in her life.

Molly quickly darted through the trees, fully aware of what was at stake; if she tripped, if she so much as stumbled, she was going to die.

Dagmar had circled around, most likely going to cut her off somewhere ahead. The snake had remained on her tail, and even now she could hear it moving across the ground.

It was falling behind, though- falling behind, maybe she had a chance if she sped up just a bit more-

-and when she did that, she ran straight into something- warm, living. Human. Alive. Male.

_Oh, god._

*

It hadn't taken long to reach the woods, less to cut through on the trails she knew like the back of her hand to reach the spot where she figured would give her a prime advantage.

Being a servant-girl had its advantages, Lydia thought- for example, being able to teach a beast something that only you knew what it meant…

She pressed three fingers to her cheek, and let off a high-quality, far-carrying imitation of a loon's call.

*

The snake stopped dead in its tracks.

It reared up, standing nearly four, maybe five feet off the ground, high enough to look Sherlock in the eye. As he recovered from his run-in with Molly (the problem of finding her now solved) and she fell to the ground, he stepped forward, standing in front of her.

He drew his knife, dropping into a protective crouch.

"If you want her," he spoke, aware on a primal level that it was capable of understanding his words, "you'll have to go through me."

The loon's call sounded again; the snake turned its great head towards the sound, baring its fangs slightly.

The sound had meant food. Had always meant food. Whenever there was that sound, there was food.

It leaned towards the food-promise, ensuring its fate.

Sherlock was quick, and fairly merciful. The snake hadn't yet realized that he'd wrapped his fingers around its neck, just behind its head, before he stabbed it at the base of its skull, dragging the blade down its spine, creating a wound nearly six inches long.

He instantly retreated, watching as it threw its head back and made one of the strangest sounds he'd ever heard; it collapsed into the snow, convulsing.

If it wasn't dead, it was paralyzed. That was what mattered.

Roughly, he put his hands under Molly's shoulders, lifting her back to her feet. "Are you alright?" he demanded.

"I'm _fine,"_ she hissed. "I just got chased by a snake and a murderer, that's all."

"Business as usual," Sherlock remarked.

"Yes, I thought so," Molly agreed. "The days are boring without threats of torture."

Something sharpened in Sherlock's eyes when she said that.

When she stiffened, he closed his eyes, trying to pinpoint the sound.

_Sound of someone stepping through snow- light figure, quick steps, moving fast-_

"He's coming," Sherlock whispered.

He subtly pushed her back with his arm, stepped forward so his body would shield hers.

When Dagmar stepped out from behind a tree, Sherlock had a white-knuckled grip on his knife, fully prepared to fight.

His priorities were instantly thrown out of order, however, when he barely made out the other figure, concealed and watching Zajic's flanks.

_Mäsiar._

But which one to go for-

_Both._

"Get back," he ordered Molly, who without question ducked behind a tree.

With a quick motion, he pulled one of the _more questionable_ objects out from under his coat. Seizing the pin from the improvised grenade with his teeth, he ripped it out and threw it.

He darted behind Molly's tree just quick enough to evade the explosion.

Two voices cursed, instead of one- one with the now familiar Czech accent, and the other with an incredibly unnerving Slovakian touch- although, disappointingly, neither showed signs of pain.

"What was that?" Molly asked breathlessly.

"Hydrofluoric acid and sodium hydroxide," he panted. "Very effective. Nice explosion. Your ears ringing?"

"Yeah."

"Same here," Sherlock quipped.

There was a gasp of surprise, an loud thud.

And a frighteningly familiar voice.

"Weren't expecting that, were you, Radovan?" Lydia asked.

Sherlock's eyes widened; instantly, he threw himself out of cover, raising his arm, fully prepared to throw his knife.

"You're outnumbered, Mäsiar," he growled.

Radovan's grey eyes glared at him from the shadows; a steel color that somehow possessed an edge of cruelty that Mycroft's lacked.

They traced back to Lydia, burning with a question Sherlock couldn't decipher.

She nodded, once.

Those eyes disappeared, and all signs of Radovan Mäsiar being present were gone.

Lydia tossed the syringe aside. "I tranquilized him," she said in way of explanation, flicking a hand towards Zajic.

"Cleverly done," Sherlock murmured. "He never saw you coming."

As Molly warily came out from her hiding place, Lydia snorted.

"Deceiving the snake with the sound you'd trained it to expect food with," another voice added, stepping out from the trees. "Rather brilliant, if I do say so myself."

Sherlock turned suddenly, his knife raised before he recognized his brother's voice.

"Damn it, Mycroft," he spat. "I almost stabbed you."

Mycroft only quirked an eyebrow as Sherlock walked to him.

"You fancy her," he taunted under his breath, jerking his head towards Lydia.

Mortified, all color drained from Sherlock's face. "I do not."

"Yes, you do," Mycroft smirked, leaned against a tree and crossing his arms.

"I do _not!"_

"You do," Mycroft said bluntly.

"Alright, so maybe I do," Sherlock muttered. "She has a bloody fantastic mind."

**

This doesn't end well. Poor Sherlock. What does that little question/nod between Lydia and Radovan mean?

Til next time, for Part Six… the final part…

*dramatic music*


	23. Part Six, Act One: Shattered Diamond

Awesomesauce is totally a word. It is definitely a word.

I'm just _delighting_ in how everybody, so far, is guessing wrong!

You said you wanted to see sad!Sherlock, in the form of being betrayed by Lydia. Well, you sort of got your wish.

John has had irregular cameos from chapters, ah… two through… something. He's on the verge of committing suicide via morphine overdose, and we have a week in his time to cover over twenty years' worth of Sherlock flashbacks.

Part Six, Act One: Radovan Mäsiar, the Lone Alpha, and Lydia Martensson, the Shattered Diamond

23

Alone, for the moment, Lydia stared at the ceiling of her dormitory.

Sleep would not come.

Sleep would never come.

When she had looked into Radovan Mäsiar's eyes, he had asked her, silently, a question. A question she had understood so utterly, it had been as if she had asked it herself.

And she had nodded.

_Yes._

And it terrified her.

She was alone. She could afford to show signs of weakness.

So Lydia covered her faces with her hands, and wept.

*

"I can't believe you actually _fancy_ her."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"But really, this is extraordinary! You've actually taken a _liking_ to her-"

"She has a personality that helps make her less irritating than most others."

In the code of Sherlock Holmes, such a statement was practically a statement of undying love.

"You _fancy_ her!"

"I do think you've said that already," Sherlock remarked stiffly.

"What is it you see in her?"

Predictably, Sherlock gave him a look that said _are-you-serious_ and then proceeded to study the wall most intently.

Smugly, Mycroft smirked to himself.

_Victory._

And again, going against all probabilities, Sherlock spoke.

"It isn't so much her, physically," he said slowly. "I mean, that's irrelevant. A random chance is all that influences physical characteristics; it's what's up here-" he tapped a finger on his temple- "that matters. And her _mind,_ Mycroft, _her mind."_

Genuinely intrigued, Mycroft leaned forward.

"She _gets_ it," Sherlock breathed. "She understands it. When I say something about someone, she understands. She doesn't ask why, because she can _see_ the chain of reasoning behind it. It's bloody brilliant."

With a quiet snicker as Sherlock actually began prattling- and Sherlock Holmes never, _ever_ prattled- Mycroft flared The Paper dramatically, having switched out the cover eighteen minutes ago.

*

They'd forced her to swear an oath.

By God, she regretted it.

She pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to rein in her emotions. There was no going back. She and Radovan had already sealed the contract in that brief, yet eternal silent conversation.

It would be done. It had to be done. If she ran, all of it would be for nothing.

If she ran, where would she go?

If she fled, every plan they'd laid would crumble and go to waste.

No, Lydia decided. No. She would stay.

_On my honor._

That was what it had come down to. Honor and glory; shame and exile.

_Fire and ice, Earth and Sky, light and dark…_

Sherlock Holmes and Radovan Mäsiar were something like those, she thought. Extreme opposites, forever in contention, but neither ever being quite the same without the other- occasionally intrinsically bound…

_This is my time, _Lydia thought. _This is it. This is my choice._

And her will was set.

*

Vengeance was sweet.

In return for merciless taunting about Lydia, Sherlock had taken to playing his violin- long, slow notes that would nearly lure Mycroft to sleep, and then several sharp, ear-piercing bits that threw him back out again.

_"Et tu,_ Sherlock?" Mycroft muttered after the fifth such occurrence.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply, and began a new series of long-and-slow notes.

And that was when the knock sounded at the door.

Sherlock stopped, looking over at the source of the sound; he tilted his head slightly.

"Enter."

Lydia nervously peered around the edge of the door, instantly setting Sherlock's nerves on edge.

"Is there something wrong?"

Lydia had been deep inside of a gang for months, now, surrounded constantly by enemies; she had been a hidden rebel, and knew how to mask her emotions.

"No," she lied coolly. "I just felt… exposed, alone, in my own dormitory. That is all."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her slightly stiffer-than-normal speech as she went to the extra bed and quickly claimed it (to Mycroft's spite, as he'd been thinking about doing the same).

When he began playing again, the tune was softer, the notes quieter, more soothing.

_Oh, brother mine,_ Mycroft thought to himself, very secretly. _You're in love. Deeply._

*

Customarily, Mycroft was the first to wake, and that time was no different.

If tradition held, the unavoidable sounds he made- the chair creaking under him, the quicker pace of his breathing- would rouse Sherlock.

Right on time, Sherlock cracked an eye, peering at his brother. Sometime during the night he'd set his violin on the table before crawling into his own bed.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in question. "Didn't sleep well?" he whispered.

Sherlock bit his cheek. _"Timor mortis conturbat me,"_ he murmured. _The fear of death disturbs me._

Something was unsettled, deep inside of him.

His eyes flicked to Lydia, an almost… _protective _light in them.

"Something's going to happen today," Sherlock realized. "Something… big."

*

"You know him better than I do," Sherlock said. "What will he be doing?"

Lydia paced anxiously, Mycroft's eyes tracking her back and forth. "He's alone. He'll have his sights set on you, for revenge. You can wait for him to come to you, or take the fight to him."

And she knew his answer.

"There's no sense in waiting," Sherlock verified, pressing his fingertips together. "It's best to seek him out before he finds someone new to run his errands."

Her stride hitched, and then continued, much to Mycroft's intrigue.

If he hadn't known better, he would have said she was afraid.

It was rational, he thought dismissively. She'd probably had plenty of reason to fear Radovan in the past.

"He'll be waiting for you," Lydia told Sherlock. "He's probably within a half-mile of the edge of the woods. He knows you'll want to take care of him personally."

"He's a lone wolf, an unknown variable," Sherlock replied. "A component so unstable that its reaction is entirely unpredictable."

With a small part of his brain, Mycroft absorbed his brother's words; more space was dedicated to analyzing Lydia, the way her voice trembled slightly, how she moved quickly, seemingly incapable of standing fully still for more than three seconds.

_What is it?_ He wondered. _What has made you so anxious?_

At that moment, the familiar uncertain _tap-tap_ sounded against the door.

"Do come in, Molly," Sherlock remarked. "Everyone else has, it seems." _So much for the privacy of a solitary dormitory._

Molly smoothly entered. "Morning," she said to Mycroft.

"Morning," he replied, giving The Paper a little flare and pretending to read it while watching the goings-on around the edge of it.

"So," Molly asked conversationally, "what have I missed?"

"Not much," Sherlock said instantly. "There's been no sign or word of Mäsiar since last night. Lydia thinks that he's waiting for me to come to him."

Mycroft closed his eyes. _Must you?_

"So I will," Sherlock concluded. "But there are a few things I have to do first…"

*

So it was that when Sherlock was busy working with his microscope, Lydia stood without a word, walked slowly to the door, and exited.

Sherlock watched her go, his eyebrows drawing toward each other slightly. It only took a few minutes for curiosity to overwhelm him, and he followed.

Mycroft looked to Molly.

She nodded.

When he followed his brother, she trailed behind him.

*

He knew how to walk quietly; her steps made soft sounds on the tiles and cement as they went down stairs and through hallways, she being entirely unaware of his presence.

He'd sense when she was about to look about, and duck behind a corner or nearby convenient large object.

When they reached a door that went outside, he waited until she reached the edge of the woods, until after she looked back as he knew she would. The snow offered no cover; it was best to wait.

Her tracks were easy to follow through the snow, the spot where she'd stopped and turned on the edge clear. Yes, Sherlock thought; there was something wrong here.

Why was she leaving?

The chances of her simply deciding on a walk were minimal, especially how she had been the one to point out that Radovan was going to be close.

He discarded the idea.

The other option…

…she was betraying him.

It made sense. The nervousness, the anxiety, the way her speech had been a bit off. The final visit had been a last reconnaissance mission before reporting in to her handler and withdrawing.

The thought of that stung. It hurt.

Deeply.

Sherlock paused, briefly, and then picked up the trail again.

Well, if she was meeting him… then he'd get his chance at finishing it.

And then, well, who knew what would happen after that?

*

"You're thinking that she's turned on us."

Molly's question to Mycroft was as simple as they came.

"Yes," he said simply. "It fits. She was anxious, different than she usually is, and then she gets up and disappears? When she herself said that Mäsiar is close, and now she goes out to find him?"

His eyes gleamed coldly in a ribbon of moonlight. "It's no mere coincidence. She was spying for both sides. He would feed her information to be given to us- some of it true, probably, to keep us trusting her- and in return she gave him everything we said. Every little movement, every single word we spoke in her presence, he knows about."

"Do you think he knows, now?" Molly asked, nodding towards the figure of Sherlock quite some ways ahead of them.

"Yes," Mycroft replied. "I think he's most likely figured it out."

When Sherlock stopped suddenly, Mycroft instinctively circled around to his left.

He'd expected to see many emotions on his brother's face: fury, shock, hurt.

He hadn't expected fear.

*

When Lydia stopped, Sherlock quickly eyed the distance between them, deemed himself close enough to hear her words, and slowly began to circle around to his right, affording himself a better view.

She closed her eyes.

"I know you're there," she called, making Sherlock freeze. "I can feel you watching me, Radovan."

Stripped branches rustled softly; the Slovakian dropped casually out of a tree bordering the circular clearing in which Lydia stood at the center. Sherlock, unnerved by the fact that if he'd gone on much further, he'd have run directly into Mäsiar, stood still to watch.

Every fiber of his being stood at alert while Radovan walked towards Lydia, stopping some ten feet away.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, darling?" he asked softly, that rough voice going sickly sweet.

Lydia's nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. _"Don't,"_ she hissed. "call me that."

Mäsiar was tall, well-muscled in a way that spoke of incredible strength without overwhelming his figure; his hair was dark, those steel-gray eyes contrasting in just the right way to make the hair on the back of one's neck raise. His fingers drummed almost absentmindedly on a hilt that protruded out of a full-length leather sheath that was on his hip, showing clearly a scimitar-shaped blade, eighteen inches long.

"You swore an oath," Mäsiar said, tilting his head. "And then you proceeded to break it. Some hours ago, I asked you if you understood exactly what that entailed."

Lydia straightened, holding her shoulders stiffly, raising her head to look Radovan in the eye.

"And I said yes," she returned.

"Then why have you come?"

Her glare was cold, high and noble. Once he heard her words, Sherlock thought it was among the bravest things he'd ever seen.

"I came to ask for an exchange."

Radovan raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"My life for his."

Radovan mockingly took a step back, his eyes full of faux surprise. "This is an interesting development," he said. "You are actually willing to trade your life for his? You would give it for He Who Walks Alone, he who is without loyalty, blackhearted and traitorous?"

_He's a finer man than you will ever be._ "By your laws, I am already doomed. This is the price of treachery, for what I did to Sergei and Dagmar. I must die."

Radovan smiled. "You have not forgotten, then. I taught you well."

At that very instant, another pair of grey eyes appeared, directly across from Sherlock.

Shock quickly fluttered over his face, quickly followed by surprise; taking an involuntary step forward, Sherlock mouthed his brother's name.

A twig snapped under his foot.

That was all it took for everything to go to hell.

Radovan lunged, covering Lydia's mouth with his hand and pulling her to his chest before he drew his knife, pointing it at the source of the sound.

"Show yourself," he hissed, and Bohemia bared its fangs through him. "Or she dies."

All emotion fell out of Sherlock's mind: terror, instinct, self-preservation.

_Or she dies._

He stepped out of the shadows.

"Well, then, Lydia darling," Radovan murmured into her ear, his hot breath going down her neck and making her shiver, "this is most _definitely_ a turn-up."

He looked over at Sherlock, Lydia being quietly passive in her own interest of survival.

"He Who Walks Alone, turned up to save _this?"_ He gave Lydia a shake, causing fury to instantly flood Sherlock's mind.

_Don't you dare touch her. Don't you even speak her name, you filthy bastard, you don't deserve to-_

"Ah," Mäsiar said softly, trailing the blade of that wicked, horrible knife against Lydia's arm. "I see."

The corners of his mouth lifted.

"Love," he taunted softly, brushing the edge over Lydia's neck. "It's a most treacherous thing. I thought you knew better, Lydia. I really did."

"Let go of her," Sherlock snarled. His voice was low, frighteningly so, making Lydia's eyes widen, the only form of speech she was allowed.

"You know what?" Radovan asked softly, still tauntingly tracing that blade over soft skin. "I don't think I will. You'll offer to take her place, no doubt, but I prefer the original offer better."

In that moment, a look was in Lydia's eyes, one only Sherlock understood.

_I'm sorry,_ those sky-blue eyes said, clear as day. _Goodbye._

And the scimitar plunged into her heart.

**

I lied. It was option three, and nobody free-choiced the correct answer.

I said you'd get sad!Sherlock. HIS CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART WAS JUST MURDERED.

That. Means. Sad.

But first… _vengeful._

Part Six, Act Two: Radovan Mäsiar, the One Time Sherlock Holmes Failed.


	24. Part Six, Act Two: Lone Alpha

Part Six, Act Two: Radovan Mäsiar, the Butcher

{Or: The One Time Sherlock Holmes Failed}

24

The world had ended.

It was the only logical explanation for all of the facts.

It explained how the knife had buried itself almost entirely into Lydia's flesh, much too high of a strike to carry any hope of survival. It explained how Radovan Mäsiar grinned nastily as he gave it a quick twist before withdrawing it. It explained how the knife was covered in blood of a variety of colors. It explained the horror in Mycroft's eyes as Radovan turned, running off into the trees.

But if the world had ended, Sherlock thought, sprinting to Lydia's side as she fell, putting an arm under her shoulders as her blood stained his clothes, the warmth fleeting against his skin, the snow slowly turning red, if the world had ended, why wasn't it burning? Why hadn't the trees been consumed in a raging inferno, the skies burned black, night turned into day by the light of flames?

Reality.

He had just, basically, killed her.

When Mycroft emerged from the trees and ran towards his brother, he hadn't the slightest idea of what he was going to do.

Faintly, then more surely, Sherlock became aware of begging.

Sherlock Holmes never, ever begged.

"Please," he whispered, his hands red with blood- her blood. "Please. Don't die." It was unreasonable. He knew words were useless.

"For me, Lydia," Sherlock whispered, bowing his head so he could look into her eyes.

Her breaths were ragged, shuddering, wracking her entire frame. She was so _small;_ so young to die. She gasped for air, swallowed back blood, and raised a hand to his cheek, her fingertips brushing his skin.

There was so much blood, Sherlock thought. So much. They said in textbooks how many pints were in a body, but it was so different to see it in person.

"Sherlock," Lydia breathed, a quiet whimper in her throat. "I.."

"Ssh," he interrupted. "Save your strength."

She ignored that.

When she spoke, it was too quiet for Mycroft to hear. When she was done, the agony in Sherlock's eyes increased a million fold.

He looked up, meeting Mycroft's eyes. The question was plain.

_Isn't there something you can do? Anything?_

Slowly, Mycroft shook his head.

Defeated, Sherlock hunched his shoulders, as if the strength to hold them up had deserted him.

Lydia pressed her hand to Sherlock's face, gently brushing her fingertips over his hair.

"Finish it," she asked of him. "For me. Promise me, you'll do this."

A cold fist was clutching at his chest, slowly clamping down on his lungs, making his breaths rattle and his entire body tremble.

"I promise," Sherlock whispered. "I swear it. On my life."

She smiled, faintly, her lips curving.

Her hand fell from his face, landing in the snow. Her breathing stopped; her heart ceased beating.

For a moment, Sherlock held his position. Slowly, he raised his free hand, gently closing her eyes with his fingers.

He had a vague sense, somewhere, _somehow_ that the essence of _her_ was still near.

"Until next we meet," he murmured.

That small smile was still on her face.

He pulled her arms a little closer to her body, and stood, his clothes soaked through with her blood.

He took a minute, an eternal minute, to commit every single bit of her to memory. The sound of her voice. The look of her face, down to the small freckle on her right cheekbone. The way her hair glowed in the sunlight, from what he'd seen from afar, the way her eyes glittered when she _understood_ what he was saying.

From that day forward, there was a corner of the Mind Palace- not often visited, but never forgotten- marked Lydia Martensson, filled with her.

When he began walking- purposefully, every step carrying conviction- Mycroft caught his arm.

"Don't," he asked.

Sherlock turned on him suddenly, drawing his knife and raising it.

"Let me go," he ordered flatly. His eyes were utterly dead. "If you don't, I'll cut you just as deep as I will him. That, I promise."

For a moment, Mycroft only looked at his brother.

And then he stepped back, raising his hands.

"Go," he said, as if in benediction. "Finish it."

Sherlock lowered the knife, looking into his brother's eyes. He dipped his head, once.

_"Quid hoc. Volo occidere Radovan Mäsiar. Penitentiam esse perfidiae hoc autem factum hac nocte animam suam perdet."_

As Sherlock walked away, disappearing into the trees, Molly slowly approached Mycroft.

"My God," she breathed. "What did he say? It was a foreign language, wasn't it?"

The words caught in Mycroft's throat. "Latin. I taught him how to speak it. It's a code we often use."

"What did he say?"

Mycroft took a deep breath.__

"I need to do this," he translated quietly._ "I will slaughter Radovan Mäsiar. This may have been her penance for treachery, but he will lose his life for what he has done here tonight."_

Molly's eyes widened. "He means to kill him."

Mycroft looked down at Lydia's body.

"He loved her. She was going to offer her life so Mäsiar would leave him alone. I should be helping him."

*

The trail was clear.

Sherlock followed it at a well-paced run, an easy rhythm he could hold for hours that covered ground quickly.

Mäsiar wanted to be found. He wouldn't lay any false trails, wouldn't evade or keep the chase going through the night. In fact, Sherlock was surprised it had gone this far.

The only aim was to get away from the others. This was their fight; it was why Mycroft hadn't followed, and how Radovan knew that Sherlock would not leave it unfinished.

He couldn't afford to show emotion. Not yet. He couldn't allow himself to grieve, to mourn the loss of someone who within twenty-four hours had managed to claim a spot in his heart.

_And the lie is offered to the prey; timor mortis conturbat me…_

This was his fight.

He stopped, noticing a fresh smear of blood on the bark of a tree immediately to his right. He almost reached out and touched it before realizing the possibility of a trap. He touched the tip of his knife to it, pressing the blade firmly to see if it had yet to dry.

The steel trap sprung out of hidden grooves in the bark, closing on the blade as Sherlock jumped back; the blade of the knife was cleanly sliced from the hilt, effectively destroying it.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"You know who I am," he said quietly.

"Yes," Mäsiar answered.

"You know why I'm here."

"Yes."

Those frosted-pine-needle eyes opened, and they burned with fire.

"This is between us. There won't be anyone else coming."

"Quite," Radovan replied, in an incredibly civilized fashion, tracing a finger down the spine of his scimitar.

It was still covered in her blood.

He sheathed it, having let Sherlock see that one thing he was sure would drive him insane. He drew a smaller knife, also curved, and absentmindedly spun the hilt in his hand.

"Ready when you are."

Sherlock bent down, his hand brushing the snow briefly; he subtly filched the blade from the snow (it was still quite functional, even without a handle) and held it in his hand tightly, the edges digging into his hand and drawing blood.

"Set game," Sherlock challenged, standing.

"Match," Mäsiar returned, and charged.

He ducked quickly under the strike meant to cut his throat, going to his left and stabbing his own blade into Radovan's ribcage. When he his bone, he simply pulled it downward, creating a nasty gash that stretched from shoulder to hip, although it was rather shallow.

Mäsiar snarled- actually snarled, like a rabid wolf- and in return, caught his right shoulder, the steel cutting skin much easier than plastic, and going deep.

Sherlock skittered back, shaking himself like a dog, pushing away the pain and noting that Radovan was doing the same.

_Well, that evens the field. He's stronger than I am, bigger, has a better knife that doesn't cut his hand to the bone when he uses it. _

_This is a suicide mission._

He threw himself back into the fight.

He attacked mindlessly, unsure of just where he hit; if you yourself had no strategy, how could the enemy see what was coming?

A mindless onslaught gave almost no opportunity for defense: he received many wounds in return.

When Radovan reached for his scimitar, Sherlock bared his teeth and clutched at the hilt, his grip like iron.

It wasn't strong enough to stop Radovan from smashing the pommel of it into his head.

As he collapsed (the blow had caused a fairly loud _crack)_, Mäsiar considered his enemy. The boy had somehow managed to maintain a hold on the knife, and there was almost no chance of him letting go. Rigor mortis was famously undefeatable.

He pressed his fingers to Sherlock's neck, feeling for a pulse, and sighing when he felt one, faint and fading.

Then again, it would be fitting to leave the knife behind. He could replace it. Perhaps they would even blame the boy for the girl's death.

She had only been a means to an end, after all. A tool to be discarded when its use was fulfilled.

And yet the boy had _loved_ her, and she him, Radovan thought as he nudged Sherlock's leg with his foot, thinking in a dull corner of his mind that the chance to break it was prime.

Curious, he crouched down, lifting Sherlock's other hand and uncurling his fingers- here, his grip hadn't stiffened. The white blade was still clutched inside his fist, the cuts it had inflicted on its wielder nearly reaching the bone.

"You were a desperate bastard, weren't you, Sherlock Holmes," he asked softly.

Inspired, with a quick flick of his hand, he snapped the bone in the boy's wrist, mostly because he could. There was no response- not so much as a twitch- verifying the theory that his enemy was dead, or dying.

With another flare of inspiration, he grabbed the blade out of the snow- he'd have scars from the thing- and made a decision.

Just in case the boy lived, he'd have a reminder of what had happened here.

Wielding it carefully, he cut the letters onto the boy's upper right arm- just deep enough to scar permanently, but not badly enough to kill.

_Checkmate._

**

Staring at nothing, Mycroft jumped violently when his phone beeped; Molly lifted her head wearily, exhausted.

When he didn't recognize the number on the text, a knot formed in his chest.

_New message_

Mycroft clicked on it.

_They call love a powerful force. It wasn't enough for your brother._

I think this is the part where most would say "I'm sorry for your loss." But I'm not, Mycroft Holmes. I'm really not.

You seem to have lost your last piece. Incidentally… checkmate.

_-Radovan Mäsiar_

Mycroft dropped the phone on the desk, pressing his hands to his face.

"What is it?" Molly asked, and knew she didn't want the answer.

"Sherlock." He barely managed to say his brother's name. "He didn't defeat Mäsiar."

"But why hasn't he…" Awareness dawned in her eyes. _"Oh."_

*

When he woke, there was pain.

It was intense, like fire; it centered from the cuts scattered over everywhere and concentrated heavily on his right arm, nesting in his wrist- most likely broken- and in a particularly painful stretch on the outside of his upper arm.

For a moment, he leaned against the tree he'd fallen by, and let himself despair as a headache made itself known.

_Broken wrist, possibly fractured skull. Concussion. Blood loss, not as bad as it could have been thanks to the cold. _

_I failed._

Radovan would leave the area; go somewhere random in Europe, disappear and go where Sherlock couldn't follow.

_This was my chance. I blew it._

_I'm sorry, Lydia. I'm so sorry. I broke my promise._

"Someday," Sherlock whispered, fisting his left hand, trying to see if it was functional. As it was, he grabbed onto a branch of the tree and pulled himself up. "Someday, I'll find you again, Radovan Mäsiar. And next time, it won't be a fair fight."

*

When he fought open the door and walked in, Mycroft looked up. Shock flashed in his eyes before he pretended to look back to his paper as Sherlock collapsed into a chair.

He didn't ask any questions; he stood, walked over to his brother, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Sherlock closed his eyes as his coat was taken off, listening as Mycroft took in a breath when he saw the extent of his wounds.

He felt it when the first strip of gauze was pressed against his skin, instantly becoming soaked with blood.

He didn't even know how much was his anymore.

Would it ever come off?

He said nothing when he occasionally felt the pull and sting of stitches, choosing to ignore it.

When Mycroft cleaned off the wound on his upper arm, he heard him stop breathing.

"I know," Sherlock said simply.

When it was over, there was silence.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Yes."

Mycroft paused. It wasn't the right thing to do. Not nearly. But it felt invasive to be near his brother in his time of mourning.

"Are you sure you want to be alone?"

"Alone is what I have, Mycroft." Sherlock took a ragged breath, the wall he hid his emotions behind cracking. "Alone protects me."

When his brother left, Sherlock let himself break.

**

In both Act One and Two, there were hints to the Moriarty showdowns: _This is a turn-up, isn't it?_ Is a line directly imported from _The Great Game._ _"Alone is what I have, Mycroft; alone protects me"_ is directly taken from _The Reichenbach Fall._

I need not say that the shadow of James Moriarty is far-reaching.


	25. Some Wounds Never Really Heal

"For Lydia" seems to be very quickly becoming our motto/theme song thing. I approve strongly, because in a chapter that may or may not exist in theory, "For Lydia" is an incredibly appropriate theme. We should make it official. It's a very simple pair of words that carry a huge amount of meaning.

Such as this chapter… you asked for Mäsiar and Moriarty.

Some Wounds Never Really Heal

25

In the solitude of his dormitory, Mycroft pressed his fingers to his eyes.

"You had to go and die, didn't you?" he muttered, entirely forgetting he was talking to a ghost. "You're the only one who's actually reached him, for Christ's sake, and you had to go and die? Do you realize how fecking _selfish_ that was of you?"

He rubbed his hands over his face, fully aware he wouldn't sleep tonight. The two Holmes brothers were connected on a deep, irrevocable level; when one was unsettled in mind, the other felt it.

"You're not here," he said. "And he is. Don't you know how that's going to torture him, Lydia? Don't you know he's never going to be the same? He _begged_ you not to die, and you did it anyway. Sherlock never begs. _Ever."_

Suddenly furious, he lowered his hands. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to do?" he demanded. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to do when my brother barely makes it through the door, when I think he's been _murdered_ trying to avenge _you,_ and he's half-dead anyway, his wrist broken, and the word _checkmate_ carved into his arm with his own knife? What the hell am I supposed to do with that, Lydia?"

**

"There were… _changes_ to the plan."

The voice on the other side of the phoneline was silent for a moment.

"Meet me, then," it said. "As soon as you can get there. The Dragon's Roost."

When the line when dead, Radovan nodded involuntarily, forgetting the voice couldn't hear him.

*

He stood stiffly, his hands in his pockets, fingering the hilt of one of his many knives. Radovan Mäsiar loved knives: the way they can in a variety of shapes, and yet all properly-made ones had a common characteristic, a straightness to them that was frank and didn't lie. _I could kill you. Use me wrong and I'll kill you; use me right and I'll kill for you._

His steel-grey eyes burned in the dark as he probed the shadows with them, wariness in his every motion.

"I don't particularly feel like playing games," he called. "And I can hear you."

He could practically hear those eyes rolling, but the overheads flicked on suddenly. Radovan had been prepared, and blinked rapidly to clear his vision.

"As I said," he reported stiffly. "There was a change in the plans. Several, in fact."

_Click. Click. Click. Click._ The shoes made that sound against the concrete, over and over and over again. The figure stopped ten feet away from Radovan, aware that physically, it was outmatched. It was also aware that if he didn't step outside the meeting place unharmed, Radovan would be captured, tortured, and slaughtered.

Radovan was also aware of this fact, but as the business relationship had been a beneficial one to him, it was not worth his while at the moment to kill the other.

"Such as?" the figure asked.

Radovan lifted his head, squaring his shoulders. He was taller than the other, and would not so much as allow the smallest give of control. In the hands of the Spider, the smallest give would be the greatest mistake.

"I told you how we were being hunted."

"Yes. I told you to ensure that you lost as few of your followers as possible."

"Lino was the first. He disappeared delivering a substantial amount of iodine, and ended up in a cage. I have told you this."

"Yes."

"Lukas went into the wind shortly afterward. We believed he had been warned; that he had been spying on us for some time."

"You have said that as well."

"I told you how Francesco was captured, and how the fighting was growing increasingly violent, compared to Lino."

"Very much so."

"I told you of Sergei, how he was captured, and how Lydia turned on him."

"I do remember just such a thing."

"And I told you of Dagmar only hours ago. I told you how his snake was slaughtered, and I watched Lydia take him down myself."

"Yes. The girl had grown into a threat. I expect you taught her a lesson."

"More than that. Our laws are absolute, and do not allow exceptions in any form whatsoever. I told you I had my suspicions of who she was working with. You agreed with them, but told me to find more evidence. And so I did."

Radovan stepped forward, seizing utter control of the conversation. "I came here, this time, to give my final report. I came to tell you that Lydia Martensson sought me out only shortly ago and tried to trade her doomed life for someone else's. I came to tell you that this mysterious person apparently worthy of her sacrifice was no other than He Who Walks Alone, Sherlock Holmes."

The figure raised his eyebrows.

"I came to tell you that Holmes and his brother had followed Lydia. That he made a mistake, and revealed himself to me. That he would have begged for her life, no doubt, as I held her against my chest as a human shield- I do not regret it- and realized something that changed everything."

"Oh?"

"They had fallen in love. She would have given her life so that he could live."

"Most interesting."

"Yes, I thought so myself. It was very entertaining to deliver a death blow, stabbing her heart, and watch from the shadows as he begged her not to leave him. It was most amusing when she asked him to finish it, for her, and when he agreed. It was delightful when Mycroft tried to stop him, and Sherlock raised his knife and said that if he didn't let go, he'd cut him just as deep as he would me."

The figure grinned, and then actually laughed, the sound echoing and mutating. "Oh, how I envy you, Radovan."

Radovan's lips twitched. That was all he allowed himself. "It was quite amusing when he pursued me and fell for my little trap, breaking his knife and then proceeding to use it even though the handle had snapped, an action that ended up cutting his hand to the bone. He fought desperately, insanely, and scored several hits, but in the end, I bested him."

"Is he dead, then?"

"As far as I know. I broke his wrist without getting a reaction, and knocked him out by smashing the pommel of my sword into his head."

"Nothing else? I'm disappointed."

Radovan smirked. "Not quite. I carved the word _checkmate_ into his arm. Paired with this…" He pulled out his phone, showing the Other the text he'd sent. "It is very fitting, is it not?"

"Oh, aye, very fitting," the Other said reverently. "Magnificently done, Radovan. Magnificently."

"He might live," Radovan said indifferently, shrugging as he put the phone back in his pocket. "A miracle might happen, and he might live. He's been known to be infamously hard to kill. If that happens, well, I've bested him once, haven't I, when rage when in his blood and murderous fury in his brain, when the grief for his _one true love_ was fresh?"

"Quite," the Other said softly. His accent was strange; something looked upon as odd even by those who were from the same area as him.

"I took one," Radovan insisted. "I can take the other."

"He failed to save her," the figure murmured. "Oh, how that will torture him…"

The brown eyes lit suddenly, turning back to Mäsiar. "But first, one more favor-"

_"Doparoma!"_ The Slovakian curse was spat suddenly, with the added effect of Radovan spitting to his right. "By the gods, I've done enough for you! The payment did not cover the cost of taking two lives, of fighting and spilling blood. It was good fun, but where is my reward, Moriarty?"

Moriarty's eyes glinted in the light, a recognition of two equal evils. "What if I promised you…" He named a figure, and several bonuses, that had Radovan raising his eyebrows.

"There has to be a catch," he said coolly. "Nobody would give that much for two kills and a favor."

"A job, Radovan," Moriarty returned. "A more permanent position, higher-up ranking, much more prominent. You'd be at my side, having nearly as much power as me at my left hand."

Radovan tilted his head. "And who would be your right hand? Don't take me for a fool, Moriarty."

Moriarty lifted his head. "Come on out, Seb. He should know."

The third person stepped out of the remaining shadows, making straight for Radovan, who stiffened at the sight of the rifle strapped to his back.

"Sebastian Moran," said he, offering a hand, which Radovan took.

"Radovan Mäsiar," he replied smoothly, and hedged a guess. "Ireland?"

"Aye," Sebastian agreed. "Jim and I knew each other back home, and kept our friendship going here. You've got a liking for knives? I prefer the rifle, myself. Allows more breathing room."

Radovan thought, consciously, of the empty sheath on his hip. _A gun is cowardly; a kill from a distance has no effort._ "A knife will always serve you proper, if you treat it right; a gun can backfire."

"Not if you treat it properly," Moran debated. "Conversely, make a mistake with a knife and it'll be the end of you. It's all about how good you are with your weapon of choice, I suppose. How about I teach you how to handle a gun, and you show me how to handle a knife in return?"

"Sounds fair," Radovan agreed.

He looked to Moriarty.

"So, when do we begin?"

His grin was fiendish.

"Now."

**

In the end, Mycroft did the thing that made the least amount of sense.

He went to Molly Hooper.

She answered the knock on her door quickly, showing that she hadn't been sleeping, either.

"You have blood on your clothes," was the first thing she said.

Mycroft looked down at himself, vaguely surprised. "So I do. It's Sherlock's. He made it back. He's fine. Actually, he's not. I don't know what to do."

Molly fell back against the wall, making a vague motion with her hand for Mycroft to come in. As soon as the door was shut, she let off a nervous laugh, in way of relieving tension.

"Neither do I, because you know what? I envied her. I was so damn jealous of her, Mycroft, because he fancied her and not me. And I can't help but think, if I'd been a little more cooperative, a little less stupid, if I hadn't forced us to show our hand with Dagmar Zajic, would she still be alive? I watched Sherlock plead with her as she died, and by God, I wonder if it's my fault."

As thoughts of the same tune were chasing each other in Mycroft's mind, he only shrugged.

"He came back with the word _checkmate_ carved into his arm. It'll scar, permanently."

Molly's eyes widened. "Jesus," she whispered.

"Broken wrist- right side- and mild concussion, as far as I can tell," he continued, reciting the facts, feeling anxiety somehow lightening on his mind. "It looks like a blunt object was slammed against his head to make him unconscious. The message is too clear for him to have been awake for it to be inflicted; he would have fought, even if he'd been held back, and they'd be jagged, but they're perfectly smooth."

Molly rubbed her temples with her fingers. "So what do we do now?"

"That's what I came to ask you," Mycroft muttered.

Sighing quietly, Molly pulled herself away from the wall's support.

"We go and see him, I suppose."

**

He was on the very verge on entering- Sherlock would have heard his footsteps- when he paused.

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

"Yes."

Quietly, the sound of a violin playing quivered and sang, a pure transcribing of utter grief and mourning into sound that no word could hope to accomplish. The tone raised, a subdued wail of sorrow, before plunging to an incredibly low note and ending.

"Do come in, Mycroft," Sherlock's voice came. "It would be warmer in here than out there, I imagine."

As they entered, he gave Molly a small nod of acknowledgement. Mycroft, unnerved, gave her a look that was reciprocated.

Sherlock was acting far too normally. He was Sherlock. He never acted _normally._

By the way his (bloodshot) eyes avoided looking in a particular direction, it must have been something visible that was driving him out of his mind…

Mycroft looked over to the desk, and instantly understood.

The scimitar sat there, almost innocently, blood covering both the blade and the pommel. On the blade it had dried to a dark, almost black shade; on the hilt, it still glistened faintly, holding on to a vestige of red.

Molly's breath caught, and she quickly looked away, instantly matching the blood pattern on the hilt to the still-present mark on the side of Sherlock's head that was slightly hidden by his hair.

As Mycroft gingerly picked it up and shuddered at the black feeling that raced into his fingers as if the knife was the essence of evil, Sherlock watched him.

"I wouldn't do that," he said, very quietly.

It was quickly returned to its original place.

"What are you going to do with it?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stared at the swordlike thing for a minute before answering.

"I think I'm going to keep it for the rest of my life," he confided, bringing the bow back to the strings of his violin and beginning a new, equally grieving series. "I couldn't throw it away. It'd be like… throwing _her_ away, the marker of what she did for me, and how I failed her. I can't forget that, Mycroft. I have my memories, but I need something physical. This is it."

He didn't mention the envelope that had been tucked into the drawer of his bedside table, containing a silver necklace with a ring on it, a simple-yet-complex figure adorning it in lieu of a gem.

A soaring phoenix.

**

I was fully prepared to make Moran Italian, or Slovakian, and then I Google "nationality of the name Sebastian Moran" and it turns out the sonofabitch is Irish. It was irresistible.

Lydia's phoenix necklace… something I've been thinking about and remember, deciding to throw it in there. I… quite like it. It seems fitting. Somehow.

Yes? No?

(I realized that the ring could actually play a part in a future chapter, "Phoenix Rising". Well, we'll just have to see, won't we? New plots are constantly being created…)


	26. In Memoriam: Lydia Martensson

In Memoriam: Lydia Martensson

26

"So," Moran said, watching as Radovan cradled the rifle in his arms, sighting down the barrel. "Adjust your stance a bit- you're right handed, so put the stock to your right shoulder. Stand sideways a bit. Put your hand on the pump. You'd use that to reload it, but there's already a round in the chamber, so don't worry about that. Balance it, straight your back a bit, shift your arm a bit so that the weight goes to your shoulders. If you do it right, you can hold it for hours like that."

Radovan changed his position slightly.

"There you go," Moran approved. "Now see the target? Flick off the safety, and do your best."

Taking a deep breath, Radovan flicked the safety with his thumb, sighting carefully.

He pulled the trigger.

The gun roared, the sound echoing in the warehouse. It kicked unexpectedly, making Radovan jump.

Even as he did, a crazy thrill rode up his arm.

"I can see why you like this," he murmured, sighting in again; his first shot had been four inches off.

Moran grinned. "Quite."

The gun clicked as he pulled the release by the trigger and reloaded it, the used shell spitting onto the floor.

_Bang._

Two inches off, this time.

Reload.

Again.

Bang.

"Dead on," Radovan breathed, raising his head and reloading the gun before putting the safety back on.

"Well done," Moran praised. "You took to it quick, I have to say. Now, let's try fifty meters…"

**

"He's composing sad music," Mycroft said, anxiously pacing Molly's dormitory. "He doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, and I don't think he's said more than three words since that night."

"He's grieving," Molly reminded him quietly. "She was the first to reach his heart, you say. To him, it would feel like it was ripped out of his chest. The pain would be nearly unbearable, deep and far-reaching. It would be bad enough if she had simply died; but for her to be murdered, in front of him, when she would have sacrificed herself for him? When he failed to avenge her, and hold the one promise he made to her?"

She leaned forward in her chair. "Mycroft," she said seriously, "I'm surprised you aren't with him. He just might try to end himself."

"Sherlock's mind doesn't work that way," he snapped. "He'd view it as the coward's way out, as giving up."

"Are you sure?" Molly asked him. "Or could he view it as penance for his failure, as something he deserves?"

Mycroft stopped, and then collapsed into the chair opposite Molly, covering his face with his hands.

"I don't know," he confessed. "I don't know my own brother anymore, Molly. This has changed him, in ways I can't begin to know."

"Have you even _tried_ to understand?"

"Can I?" Mycroft shot back. "Do you know what it's like to have someone die in your arms?"

_Do you know what it's like to know you're the cause of it?_

"The five stages of grief," Molly reminded him. "Where do you think he's at?"

He almost said that Sherlock wouldn't do such a thing normally, but for her sake, he pretended.

"He was through shock by the time he reached her," Mycroft said, standing to pace again. "Denial only took a few seconds. Anger… there was a flash of it, but not enough to call the phase completed. Depression. That's where he is, right now."

Molly raised her eyebrows. "And?"

"He won't go anywhere while stuck in that phase," Mycroft decided, turning. "So if I-"

"No," Molly sighed. "He needs his opportunity to mourn. Anger will come later." She stood. "I'll talk to him."

*

"He said you aren't eating."

"Why should I?" Sherlock wondered, quietly playing a tune on his violin that had a knot forming in Molly's chest.

"Won't sleep, either?"

Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot, red from both a lack of sleep. Not from tears, not yet. He hadn't allowed himself to go that far.

Who said he deserved to?

"When I sleep, Molly," he whispered, "I go from nightmare to nightmare, and there is no relief in waking."

There was nothing she could say to that.

"There's nobody to directly blame but myself," Sherlock murmured. The violin keened softly, lifting into high, wailing notes before dropping again into something more low and sorrowful that contrasted perfectly.

_Light and dark, Earth and Sky, fire and ice…_

"I was the one who gave my position away. I was the one who stepped forward and made a sound, letting Radovan see me. It's my fault he killed her, and I was so damn weak that I couldn't even finish him. Look," he said, setting aside the violin and pulling back the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing, still bloodstained. _"Checkmate._ Carved into my arm with my own knife. How ironic is that?

"It's just another way to remind me how I failed to hold to the one thing she ever asked of me," Sherlock finished quietly, pressing his face into his hands. "When she was dying, as I held her, she asked one thing of me. _Finish it,_ she said. _For me."_

His hands dropped. He stared at them blindly.

"I didn't do it," he repeatedly dully, vocalizing what he'd been saying inside his head for hours. "I failed her, in the one thing that I couldn't allow myself to fail in. And she's dead. I'll never make it up to her."

He was trembling now, shaking just slightly.

And Molly knew what to do.

She stood, walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

And finally, Sherlock let the tears show.

*

"How many kills have you had?"

Radovan warmed his hands over the fire as he asked Sebastian that question.

The other boy drew a pack of cigarettes out from under his jacket, pulling one out.

"You want one?"

Radovan considered, then figured he could try it. "Yeah, why not?" he asked, reaching for it.

"Your first?"

"Yeah." Radovan placed the filter between his lips, leaning forward as Sebastian held the lighter in front of his face.

"First drag's going to taste God-awful," Moran warned. "After that, it's not so bad."

The first drag _was_ God-awful, causing him to cough violently. He took another one, though, and it was fairly pleasant.

"Acquired taste," Sebastian said, lighting his own and sighing deeply as smoke filled his lungs. "Not much better than a fag after a really long-ass day."

Radovan tried again, and it really wasn't that bad. "I can see how you like it."

"You asked how many kills I've had?" Moran asked, taking a pull off of his cigarette. "Twenty-seven. All animals, though, none human. Well, there was that guy in Sussex, but he was already dying and it was a mercy shot, so he doesn't count. You?"

Radovan exhaled, relishing the warmth in the coldness of the winter night. "One hundred and forty-six nonhuman. Two human- the girl and the boy."

"Impressive," Moran complimented. "Making your kill mark as young as we are."

"When your last name translates to _butcher_ in your home tongue," Radovan said airily, "one much do his best to live up to it, yes?"

Sebastian grinned. "What a pair we are. D'you know what every family crest for the name of _Moran_ has? Three stars, and a scrap of Latin- _Lucent in tenebris._ 'They shine in darkness.'"

Radovan laughed, flicking the ash off of his cigarette with a tap of his finger.

"Might I interrupt your fun?" Moriarty asked as he appeared silently beside them.

They both twitched slightly; Radovan looked at him coldly. "Oh?"

"Police reports on the matter with the girl are in." He handed a folder to Radovan, who opened it, Sebastian leaning over to read it. "They found her body- picture's there, nice stab, power behind it- but not the boy's. No trace of him when they followed the tracks, only bloody snow and more marks leading back to the school."

"I suppose they'll find out who it was?" Moran asked.

"Perhaps," Moriarty said.

With a groan, Radovan shut the folder with a snap. "Fuck me," he spat. "This means I have to engage this little fucking bastard in one of those goddamned cliché rivalries, doesn't it?"

**

I had a moment there when I randomly tacked _Lydia Martensson_ to the end of _In Memoriam. _My gaze lifted off my laptop screen, and my brain went: _There it is. The name for John's final chapter, because you put a colon to give yourself the option of using 'In Memoriam' again. "In Memoriam: Sherlock Holmes". It's perfect._

It really is.

Suggestions, please!


	27. Caring Is Not An Advantage

Caring Is Not An Advantage

{Or: Fire and Ice}

27

His eyebrows furrowed, Radovan's eyes were intense.

With a quick motion of his hand, he moved his pawn forward, quickly checking Moran's rook, snatching the piece off the board.

"Damn," Sebastian said under his breath, and took Radovan's knight in return.

"Black rook takes knight," Moriarty predicted, walking out of the shadows. This had happened so many times now that Radovan didn't so much as twitch while considering his next move. "White pawn takes black pawn. Black bishop takes white queen; white king takes black knight. Black king takes white king, and mate."

The two players froze, and then synonymously lifted their heads, glaring at Moriarty intensely. Just for the purpose of disagreeing, Radovan moved his rook to take the other rook instead.

"Well?" Sebastian asked.

"I lied," Moriarty added cheerfully as Radovan lured Sebastian into a trap, costing the other three pieces in quick succession.

"God_damn,"_ Sebastian snarled, and took Radovan's rook.

Then his own eyebrows nearly formed a _v_ when Radovan picked up a piece with his left hand.

"I thought you were right-handed."

"Ambidextrous," Radovan replied, capturing Sebastian's bishop.

"Impressive," Moran commented, taking a pawn.

"Hello?" Moriarty tried to remind them of his presence.

"What is it?" the other two snapped.

"The small matter of an unfinished mission?"

"Unimportant" Moran immediately decided, going back to the game.

"Irrelevant," Radovan agreed, taking one of Sebastian's pawns in return.

"What about _leverage?"_ Moriarty queried.

Sebastian paused in the act of taking another one of Radovan's pawns. "Do go on." He took the pawn anyway.

Instead of continuing, Moriarty walked around to the side of the board, watching as Radovan began to lull Sebastian into another trap.

"What do you do when you want to take out the opposing side?" Moriarty asked.

Sebastian thought about it; Radovan replied immediately.

"You slowly lure him out," he said as the game reached its climax, moves going much quicker than they had before. "You lull him into a false sense of security, then strike, springing your trap. You take away what surrounds the head-" he took four of Sebastian's pieces in quick succession- "and when that's done-"

He snatched the white king off the board, and held it high in the air.

"Checkmate."

**

The only sign of motion present in Mycroft Holmes as he sat, watching his brother, was the movement of his eyes as the younger Holmes paced the floor.

From left, to right, to left, to right, and back again…

_Should have seen it coming._

Definitely should have seen it coming.

Idiot.

Why didn't you do something? He was standing right there! Why didn't you do something, you moron, before he grabbed her? Why didn't you intervene?

Would've had the same end result, a small voice in the back of Sherlock's mind ventured meekly.

_Shut up,_ he said, silencing it.

_She was never anything more than a piece in their games to them._

"If I die," Sherlock suddenly said out loud, the first such words in hours, "I want to die as myself. Not something someone else has made me to be."

Mycroft only raised his eyebrows.

Then, as Sherlock turned, his I-will-not-say-anything reverie snapped.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked, equally suddenly.

"What?" Sherlock snapped. "Yes. I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Mycroft disagreed, standing. Sherlock paused, staring at him. "The wound on your shoulder is infected."

Sherlock twisted his neck, looking at the spot where Radovan had caught him with his dagger immediately after he'd been dealt a nasty wound. Not so nasty, Sherlock realized, thinking about it. The cut was long, but not very deep.

His was infected, though. Damn, was it really that deep?

"No, it's not," he challenged. _Blood price; a wound for a wound._

Something akin to fury flashed in Mycroft's eyes. "Yes, it is," he said firmly, stepping forward and setting a hand on Sherlock's left shoulder. When the younger brother tried to turn away, Sherlock quickly learned something.

Mycroft had strong hands.

He pulled one more time, fruitlessly, then went limp.

"So maybe it is," he muttered. "What does it matter, Mycroft, really?"

He hissed through his teeth as his brother inspected the cut.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Mycroft didn't realize he was speaking out loud, most likely. "Does it not feel like that your veins are on fire?"

"It does," Sherlock quipped. "But, well, you know, with everything else going on, it's been pretty low on my list of priorities."

Mycroft sighed. "We're going to have to clean it out again."

"Iodine's in the top left drawer of the desk," Sherlock invited, his tone hard and bitter. "Be my guest."

"Is there anything you don't have tucked away somewhere?"

Sherlock's smile was thin, and humorless. Most definitely not a sign of improvement. "Not much, no. Except for francium. It only has a half-life of twenty-two minutes and is highly unstable, making it rather difficult to store away in conditions such as this."

It didn't take long to measure out the correct amount of iodine and to dilute it into a usable solution. He carefully ignored Sherlock's shudder as the wound was reopened and flushed out, taking the opportunity to look over some of the others.

The first one that he found to be raw and irritated could have been explained as an accident. Two, perhaps.

But five, and counting?

Mycroft went completely still.

"You've been intentionally aggravating your wounds," he murmured. "Why?"

Sherlock leaned away, just slightly. "Why does it matter?"

"It'll only serve to prolong the healing process, cause much more pain than necessary, force more buildup of scar tissue and increase the risk of infection. You know that. Why would you-"

It struck him suddenly.

"You're _seeking_ physical pain."

Sherlock stood. "So what if I am?"

Mycroft also stood, taking away his brother's brief advantage in height. There was no way he'd allow ground on this.

"Because it's stupid. Because there's no reason for it, and it's entirely unnecessary to do this to yourself-"

"You just don't fucking _see,_ do you?" Sherlock snarled, turned away. "You just don't fecking get how I could see fit to try to use physical pain to block out emotional?"

Mycroft's eyes were cold. "Life isn't fair, Sherlock. I thought you knew that by now. I certainly thought you had better sense than _this."_

Sherlock turned back to him in an instant, his eyes blazing with fury. In his pocket, his hand brushed the delicate silver chain of Lydia's necklace.

And that was what it took to snap the final piece of his composure.

"Life isn't fair?" he spat. "Oh, you think so? Let's see, what's ever happened to you? Abused by your parents? Ah, no, I forgot- you're the _firstborn,_ the better son, the favorite. Shunned by your peers? No, again, the favorite, the one who has hundreds at his command. Having the one person who actually fucking _understood_ you die in your arms? Let's see. Not that I can remember, no. Justify your arguments, Mycroft, or they will become hollow and brittle, and will be destroyed by your enemies."

Mycroft's eyes were ice as he stepped forward.

"All lives end," said he, and his voice vibrated with emotion and power. "All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

_Fire and ice._

Earth and Sky.

Light and dark.

The inferno of fury in Sherlock's eyes contrasted drastically with the ice in Mycroft's.

Before either of them knew it, Sherlock punched his brother in the face.

**

I didn't really expect that, either. I was at a standstill at the part where Sherlock says he wants to die as himself, and then I realized I had to finish the chapter, and… this came out. The chapter's wrongly named for it. Actually, I'm renaming it. From _Chess, _to _Caring Is Not An Advantage._

I have no idea what happens next. xD Suggestions?


	28. First Time Mycroft Asked For A Facepunch

The First Time Mycroft Really Needed To Be Punched In The Face

28

It was wholly justifiable.

It was beyond wholly justifiable.

It was entirely, irrevocably _right._

As Mycroft staggered, pressing his hand to his cheek and Sherlock brought his own to his chest, inspecting his now-aching knuckles- ah, well, he'd split the skin, not so bad considering.

_List of satisfying things to do, Number One: Punching your arrogant arse of a brother._

As Mycroft glared, Sherlock's muscles tensed.

_About damn time we had a nice fight… we've gone far too long without one…_

As the two brothers were on the very verge of a to-the-death fight, Mycroft's phone, sitting innocently on the desk, beeped.

They both transferred their hateful glares to it; Sherlock walked over, quickly picking it up and reading the text message.

"Damn it," Sherlock snarled, passing it to Mycroft.

_Help._

"That's Molly's number," Mycroft realized.

"Yes, Mycroft," Sherlock said through his teeth. "I know that."

**

[One hour earlier]

Fate was an interesting thing.

So thought Molly, as she looked out her window and watched the world go by.

Not so long ago, she hadn't known that Sherlock Holmes even existed. Now, she'd risked her life for him on multiple occasions.

Thinking of that, her phone buzzed.

_Want some words- down in the grounds, five minutes from now?_

Molly rolled her eyes. _Mycroft,_ she presumed.

_Of course. I'll be right there._

The air was brisk, nipping at her face as she looked around.

"Mycroft?" she called, stepping out from the school and into the open before turning around.

Movement at the edge of her vision made her turn sharply.

He was tall; she had to admit he was handsome, with a strong jawline, warm brown eyes, and a small smile on his face.

He wasn't Mycroft.

"Hello," the stranger said pleasantly, stepping forward and offering his hand. Uncertainly, Molly took it; his grip was firm, but not overly so.

"Hello?" she asked warily.

He tilted his head. Those eyes didn't hold the slightest trace of a secret or a lie; she let herself relax, just a bit.

"My name's Sebastian Moran," he added, in the most polite and welcoming of tones.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Molly Hooper."

"Yes, I know," he continued. "I think you've met a friend of mine. Radovan Mäsiar?"

The name was all it took. Molly's eyes went wide; she tried to scramble away from him, but he tightened his hold on her hand, not allowing her to do so.

"It's amusing, how you didn't notice how Mycroft Holmes always signs his texts with either his initials or his name," Sebastian commented. "Or how you didn't notice the writing style was completely different than his. So, there's a weak link in their chain as well; _you."_

She pulled against his hand, trying to escape.

"Now, darling, that simply wouldn't do," Sebastian admonished.

He struck quickly, his fist ramming against her temple; she collapsed instantly as Moran re-fisted his hand and stretched the joints of his fingers several times.

"Nice shot, Seb," Radovan complimented, stepping out of the shadows.

Sebastian grinned. "She didn't suspect us at _all,_ Radovan. Can you believe her idiocy?"

"Not quite, no." Radovan bent down, taking her pulse and finding it satisfactory. "I mean, really. She's walked with Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. You'd have thought that they would have rubbed off on her."

"Really," Sebastian agreed.

Experimentally, Radovan hooked his arms under her shoulders.

"I could manage her by myself, but it'd be easier with two," he said. "Care to toss in a hand?"

"Gladly."

*

There was light when she woke.

Soft, orange light, dancing behind her eyelids that felt too heavy to lift; flares were accompanied by quiet crackling.

_Fire._

A tame blaze, she took the liberty of assuming, as the light was close but the heat was not unbearable.

_Feign sleep._ She kept her eyes closed, experimentally twitching her hands, pinned behind her shoulders uncomfortably as what felt like tree bark dug into her shoulders.

_Hands tied._

_Phone in pocket._

Good.

By God, her head hurt, Molly realized suddenly. A sharp, stabbing pain radiated from her left temple, digging its claws into the base of her skull.

Involuntarily, she whimpered quietly. Across the clearing, the guard watching over her, his chin on his chest in a mockery of sleep, twitched in surprise, then deliberately relaxed his muscles, lengthening his breaths to that of one unconscious.

Burningly curious, Molly dared to peer through her lashes, and then opened her eyes just a touch.

As the figure some distance from her seemed to be either sleeping or on the edge of it, she took in her surroundings properly.

Fire in the center of the clearing; as-yet unidentifiable figure sleeping, presumably having been keeping watch over her. Hands tied, leaning against a tree, phone still in pocket… feet tied? Yes.

She nearly dislocated her shoulder doing so, but she managed to get the phone out of her pocket.

Twisting her neck awkwardly, she managed to get to Mycroft's name in her contacts list and begin a message.

Simplicity was the best idea here. She hadn't much time, most likely.

_Help._

Yes, she thought as she sent the message. Very simple.

The phone beeped softly as it sent the text.

The figure lifted its head, in a way that said no, it had not been sleeping.

Molly's blood froze in her veins.

"Hello, darling," Radovan said pleasantly, standing and walking over to her side. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. My name's Radovan- Radovan Mäsiar."

She looked up at him, and her eyes were full of terror.

Deliberately, he drew his knife, angling the blade so that the firelight glinted on it. He picked up her phone, reading the text.

"Excellent," he murmured, and looked back to her. "You know, we don't really want you. You're just the bait in the trap."

He knelt by her side, and that knife, that wickedly long, curved knife, seemed to be alive with the light dancing on it.

"But," he said abruptly, "that doesn't mean I can't have some fun."

And suddenly, the light on the knife flashed as it cut into the skin and muscle on her right forearm, creating a wicked six-inch-long cut that _burned._

She screamed, briefly, regaining herself and not allowing a sign of weakness.

Cruelly, Radovan dug his fingers into the fresh wound, causing pain even worse than the first.

"Now tell me," he growled, his voice low and no longer remotely friendly, "What, exactly, are the weaknesses of Sherlock Holmes- everything, physical and not?"

**

I blame everybody who suggested that Molly get captured. That means you. You know who you are.


	29. Soft Steel Doesn't Break, But It Bends

Soft Steel Doesn't Break, But It Bends

29

{Jesus, 29 chapters already? It doesn't feel real. And, well, so much for present-day Sherlock at the 35 mark. It's looking more like 50 now, which would be a symbolic halfway point. Possibly. Considering how this whole backstory shatstorm was supposed to be a prologue to the main story. XD}

[ThoroughlySherlocked: you'll get what you asked so nicely for. I promise.]

(Mycroft gets a line of dialogue in which he is a total ass. Gah. Why do I suddenly hate him so much?)

Underneath her soft exterior, Molly Hooper had nerves of steel.

But steel is affected by that which surrounds it; even steel, given great force, will bend.

And break.

She took pain; she was strong enough to not break at first. But even the bravest will eventually fall; she was a young girl, a child, really, and unaccustomed to agony.

When Radovan kept working at that cut on her arm, when he dug his fingers _directly into the bone, his fingernails scraping against it,_ she shattered.

"Alright!" she begged. "Alright! I'll tell you what I know. Just- please- please, stop. _Stop,"_ she pleaded.

Blood covering his hands, a satisfied smile on his face, Radovan straightened and stepped back.

When she hesitated, trying to gather her breath and push back tears so that her voice- hoarse from screaming- could be heard, he feinted stepping towards her again.

She cowered back with a whimper.

"I'll tell you, I swear-" she coughed now, as her throat protested against speech. "I- he has a cut on his right shoulder, deep but not hitting the bone. It's starting to get infected. All of the more serious wounds he has, he's been aggravating, ensuring the physical pain. I don't know why, really! He has a deep scar on his right forearm that cuts down on the agility in his fingertips, and the wrist on that side's broken, although he ignores it most of the time. He's got an incredible capacity for pain, and I think his fingers have been broken before, frequently, the way he treats them sometimes- I think he was abused at home, the way he flinches from touch."

"Excellent," Radovan murmured. "Go on."

"He's grieving over Lydia," Molly threw out desperately. "He's mourning her- won't sleep, won't eat. He sinks into the deepest fits of depression, comes out spitting with rage, and falls back again."

"And?" Radovan queried.

Fervently, Molly tried to think of something. When Radovan wrapped his hand around her arm and applied no small amount of pressure, she flung out anything that came to mind.

"He's done a lot of work with chemicals," she managed. "You saw that one day- an explosive, very effective. He's figured out things that disinfect wounds, cause pain like fire when touched to flesh."

"And the brother?" Radovan asked, tracing a finger down the spine of his knife.

"Mycroft?" Molly's eyebrows drew together slightly. "It's… complicated."

**

"But where would they have taken her?"

"How the bloody hell would I know?" Sherlock snapped, pacing anxiously as he pulled a hand through his hair.

Complicated, indeed.

"Shut up, Sherlock," Mycroft snarled. "Your _emotions_ aren't going to help anyone right now."

"What would you know about it, Mycroft?" Sherlock hissed.

In an instant, Mycroft was out of his chair. He grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders, ramming him up against the wall.

As his younger brother's eyes widened, he spoke.

"Listen to me," Mycroft growled. "If she dies, and it's in any possible way your fault, so help me God, I will make your life a living hell. Get a hold of yourself!" He pulled back briefly and pushed Sherlock against the wall again, to make sure the point got through. "There's something bigger than _you_ happening right now, so just shove it aside and _focus!"_

When Mycroft let him go, Sherlock only stood there. When his brother's back was turned, he let the hurt show in his eyes, just for a second, as his mind reeled.

He'd been beaten, stabbed, and put through almost everything physically painful one could imagine.

Words, he learned right there, caused deeper pain.

Flesh wounds only affected the skin. All eventually healed, and even the deepest scars, given time, would fade.

A wound on the soul, however, could bleed fresh for all eternity.

With a low oath, Mycroft threw whatever it was he'd been examining at the wall, where it shattered and fell to the ground.

"We're going to go down and follow the tracks," Mycroft said, his tone more like an order as he drew his knife. "Keep my back."

The brilliant, fiery flare of resistance, survival and _self_ that had kept him alive and sane under his father's hands extinguished by his brother, Sherlock, beaten, followed.

**

This was continued, but then it was 11:05 and I had to go to bed. Short chapter is better than no chapter, ai?

The usual upload wouldn't work; inconsistencies are due to copypaste.


	30. The Rescue of Molly Hooper

Thirtieth chapter. Damn. It deserves a really dramatic title.

There is foreign text in this chapter. Do _not_ take it to Google Translate, or any other service, and they tend to spit it back wrong. The transcription is at the end of the chapter.

The Rescue of Molly Hooper

30

"So she stood here, he came out of the shadows…" His eyes flicking from point to point, Mycroft's nerves were on edge as he followed Molly's tracks. "…it would seem they talked a bit, before…"

He bent down, pressing his fingers to the snow. When he lifted them, they were faintly red.

"Direct blow to the head, it looks like. And then…"

"There was another," Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft raised his head? "What?"

"There were two of them." He gestured to the tracks that came out of the woods and had waited at a point separate from the other. "I don't recognize the first, but…"

He had a flash of chasing those same tracks through snow, covered in blood, vengeance in his blood.

"I would say with near certainty that those-" he again gestured at the second set of prints- "are Radovan Mäsiar's."

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed.

"So he has an accomplice."

"So it would seem," Sherlock replied, his voice still so low that Mycroft had to strain to hear it.

_Speaking style is different than usual. Much more submissive than he normally is._

Mycroft glanced over at his brother, giving him a quick look-over.

_I'll deal with it later._

**

"Think we've gotten most of what we can out of her?"

Radovan tilted his head, considering. "Yeah, probably. It's only going to be a bit before they make it here, anyway, so I'd better head out."

"It's been a while since I had some action," Sebastian said philosophically. "I'll stick, have a brief snap with the scrapper. You've seen him, but I haven't," he added with something akin to a pout.

"Your choice," Radovan commented. "I'll see you back at the base."

**

Sherlock being Sherlock, and having a rather strong desire to get away from his brother, he ranged ahead, leaving Mycroft behind.

_You're weaponless,_ a part of his mind reminded him.

_Let them come._

_You're completely at their mercy if they get their hands on you._

_Let them,_ Sherlock repeated. _Let them. I'll rip out their hearts and drink their blood._

_With your bare hands?_

With my bare hands.

The voice was silent as he agilely darted through the woods, frequently crossing the trail to get a better look at the tracks.

_Two of them, carrying her between them, judging by the depth of their prints. They were in no rush. Made no effort whatsoever to cover their trail. They _want_ me to find them._

Sherlock paused, raising his head. The light filtering through the trees turned his eyes silver.

"Challenge accepted," he whispered, his breath fogging in the air.

**

_Scree-ee-ee-ee-ee._

_Scree-ee-ee-ee-ee._

_Scree-ee-ee-ee-ee._

The knife kept making that sound, over and over and over, as Sebastian honed it with a rock that had been lying by his feet. To Molly, it sounded like the scream of some creature heralding her end.

Every once in a while, he'd look up from the knife, meet her eyes, and smile.

"I want to give him my best when he shows, y'know," Sebastian said charmingly. "He's rather earned it, don't you think? Fighting Radovan as well as he did- there's a true opponent, going for fair combat- he warrants my finest."

Molly didn't dare say a word, not after everything she'd done.

When there was a soft rustling at the edge of their clearing, Sebastian looked up.

His lips curved.

_"Agus mar sin go gcomhlíonann an t-iolar na Spioróg,"_ he called softly. It was Gaelic, ancient Irish.

The eyes reflected the light of the fire, the bright green turning an odd color that Molly had no words to describe, sending a chill down her spine as he stepped out of the shadows, fury in his gaze.

_"Decet falco dicitur, occurrit Aquila,"_ Sherlock replied smoothly, in Latin.

Molly hadn't the slightest idea what had been said, but Moran's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"The name's Sebastian Moran," the elder challenged. "I don't quite consider myself the same way you do, I'm afraid."

Sherlock's eyes were coldly furious. "That's too bad for you, then," he threatened.

Sebastian stood. "Is it, then?" he queried, his voice alarmingly low.

Sherlock had still been walking towards him; now he stopped.

"'Avenge not yourselves, but give place unto wrath,'" he quoted quietly. "'For it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

He tilted his head tauntingly. "You Irish hold the Bible tight to your chest, don't you, you culchie coward?"

Sebastian bared his teeth in rage.

And charged.

Sherlock quickly ducked under the knife aimed for his throat, throwing a quick, hopefully painful punch into Moran's ribs as he evaded.

_Alright, maybe it was a bad idea to come sans weapon._

What if I got it away from him?

Molly watched mutely.

When Sebastian briefly forsook the knife and seized his right arm, digging his fingers into the still-raw scar in _exactly _the right spot the cause agony, Sherlock's eyes rolled back briefly in his head.

_I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. _

She knew he'd figured it out when he afforded her the first glance as she stepped back, and saw the truth dawn in his eyes.

And that was when the knife buried itself in his chest.

**

Cliffhanger.

I suck.

OKAY I'M NOT REALLY THAT EVIL, OKAY? I just couldn't resist threatening to break the chapter there, because I really want to. But it's far too short. Consider yourself lucky my mind wouldn't spit out those fattening words I wanted so badly.

**

Sherlock's eyes widened, as if in surprise; his other hand raised to clutch at the hilt, fumbling as he fell to his knees.

Sebastian smirked, satisfied.

"I win," he said softly.

Sherlock took a ragged breath through his mouth, and another, his head lowered so that his face wouldn't be visible.

Sebastian snickered quietly. "How amusing, that _I_ should be the one to defeat you." Humor danced in his eyes as he stepped closer to his downed prey, bending down so he could put his lips to Sherlock's ear.

"And you know what?" he breathed. _"Checkmate."_

Quick as a snake, Sherlock whipped out the knife, smashing the end of it into Sebastian's temple. He dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood without effort- not a single speck of blood visible.

"Moron."

Molly stared. "But- how-"

"The ancient trick of hiding the knife under your arm," Sherlock said dully, as if it were like explaining the sky was blue. "It was child's play."

And then he walked over to her, really looking her over- bloodied, terrified.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, cutting the rope that tied her hands first; she made a sound of relief as her shoulders relaxed into a more natural position.

"Yes," she managed.

"No, you're not," he disagreed firmly, cutting the other rope before tossing the knife aside to examine her arm.

Something akin to sympathy flashed in his eyes. Just for an instant.

"A rather insane plan, if I say so myself," Mycroft said as he stepped out of the shadows.

"And how long were you watching?" Sherlock asked as he began to dress Molly's wound.

"I arrived just as you pulled your little stunt with the knife."

His eyes carried a different message: _don't do that to me again. I thought you were dead._

Sherlock's were bitter. _Oh, now you care?_

Hurt registered in Mycroft's. _I-_

_I thought caring wasn't an advantage. _Sherlock.

_I was wrong. _Mycroft.

_Oh, let the gods herald this day. Mycroft Holmes is wrong! _

Sherlock spared him a longer look.

_We'll talk later about this._

Mycroft nodded.

**

*quiet snicker*

_Translations-_

Sebastian: And so the eagle meets the sparrowhawk.

Sherlock: Properly, it is that the falcon meets the vulture.


	31. Mycroft Apologizes For The First Time

Mycroft Apologizes For The First Time

31

Sitting, and yet somehow maintaining the position of power, Sherlock pressed his fingertips together.

"Well?"

Mycroft paced anxiously.

"I was wrong."

"While shocking as that may be, we've established that fact already. Next?"

Mycroft bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Well, this is truly a night of firsts."

"I'm serious," Mycroft muttered. "I was in the wrong, way in the wrong. I didn't understand how you felt until tonight. When you… when I thought he'd killed you, I finally got it. It feels like your very _essence_ has been cleaved in half, like the knife went into your heart instead of theirs. It's a pain that is blinding, all-consuming, and capable of driving lesser men insane. It's like a fist around your lungs, stealing your breath, stopping your mind until you can't think of anything but the utter despair of what's happened before you."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Yes."

"And there are no words," Mycroft finished, turning to his brother, _"none,_ that can adequately depict how sorry I am. It was a cruel thing to say, incredibly so. I regret it."

_"Sentio quantam nunc, si iterum experiri nisi quid vobis videtur?"_ _And now that you know how I feel, even if you only experienced it for a second, what do you think?_

Mycroft took a deep breath.

"That the deepest wounds that hurt the most are not physical, but those that are of the heart."

Sherlock shuddered. Just once.

"I forgive you."

**

His hands tucked in his pockets, Radovan took a pull off of a cigarette, and then exhaled the smoke into the air.

Guard duty was boring.

Then he smirked as he saw Sebastian come out of the woods, staggering slightly.

His smirk widened to a grin as he saw, when he came closer, that the side of his comrade's head was caked in blood.

"Scrapper turned out to be more than a scrapper, ai?" Radovan taunted.

"Piss off," Sebastian muttered, gingerly pressing his fingers to the side of his head. "Hurts like a fucking bitch in heat, that's all I've got to say."

"Tell me, how did he outwit you? Did he evade and sneak in a proper blow, or come up behind and drop you?"

"Little rat bastard fucking played dead on me, let me think I'd stabbed him in the heart when he whips the knife out from under his arm and bashes in my skull."

Radovan pressed his lips together, biting them to hold back a laugh.

Sebastian noticed. "Fuck off," he grumbled. "The bastard got a few hits in on you, I've seen them!"

Radovan brushed his fingers over his side. A fairly minor wound, but it still hurt.

"I beat him, though," Radovan reminded him.

"Oh, _piss off,"_ Sebastian muttered, and stepped inside the compound.

"Jim's going to have his hide," Radovan said under his breath, his voice entirely too sing-song –like to be appropriate.

*

Moriarty had been flicking through a newspaper when Sebastian stepped into his room. When he lifted his head, looking over at his friend, his eyes narrowed; he set aside the paper.

"What happened?" he asked flatly.

"Sherlock Holmes, that's bloody what," Sebastian hissed, collapsing into a chair. "Little bastard's a hell of a lot more than he looks."

Disapprovingly, Moriarty glared at him. "Radovan told you this. Several times, while cursing rather colorfully about the state of his wounds."

_"I know what fucking Radovan said!"_ Sebastian snapped. "I underestimated the bastard, alright, and I wanted to see how good of a fight he was! I thought I had him beat, and then he handed me my ass-"

Moriarty raised a hand.

"You _fought_ Sherlock Holmes?"

"Aye," Sebastian snarled, the Irish in his voice getting stronger.

"Capture the girl, I said. Have some fun with her if you must, I said. Get everything she knows out of her, I said. _Get the fuck out of there before he shows,_ _I said."_

Sebastian looked at him coldly. "I wanted-"

"I don't give a _damn_ what you wanted!" Moriarty lunged out of his chair, and in a flash had his hands over Sebastian's arms, leaning threateningly over his minion. "I gave you a fucking order, Sebastian Moran! Under no circumstances are you to deviate. Are we fucking _clear?"_

When Sebastian didn't reply fast enough, he started again.

"Don't you _dare_ defy me, Sebastian," Moriarty hissed. "Do this again, and I will skin you. I will flay the flesh from your bones and feed it to feral dogs."

"I understand," Sebastian managed shakily.

"Good," Moriarty said abruptly, changing moods on a dime as he straightened and turned away. "Now. How do you feel about Dartmoor?"

Sebastian's eyebrows furrowed. "Dartmoor, Jim?"

**

Short chapter. Because I can't think of any more. DERP. NEED. IDEAS. NOW.

I sort of opened a door with Dartmoor. Somebody throw me a bone. A prompt. Anyfrickingthing.

PLEASE.


	32. Countdown: Five Days

Countdown: Five Days

[I always play music when writing, and last night (I continued from where I'd left off today) I started the Harry Potter soundtrack for the first time in a while. Right when I typed the title, _Ron Leaves_ started. By God, it was fitting.]

32

_Click-click, click-click, click-click, click-click-_

He hated the bloody cane, hated it with a vengeance. But, due to his damned _psychosomatic_ limp, it was necessary.

John could remember, clearly, walking down this same path in the park two years ago. By some far-reaching chance, he'd run into Mike Stamford.

And there it had started.

Some part of him hoped, desperately, faintly, vainly, that he'd be there; that it would have all been some sort of horrible dream.

But that would mean starting entirely over. The memories weren't lies.

But speaking of old acquaintances-

"John!"

Recognizing the voice, John paused, collecting himself before turning.

"Hello, Molly," he said in a fairly neutral tone.

She walked up to him, looking him over- and he could have sworn something like guilt passed over her face.

"How are you?" she asked quietly.

"Fine," John replied. "And you?"

Her eyes flicked to the side. "Alright," she murmured. Then feeling it was highly unsuitable to just leave him like that, she threw out something else.

"You want to grab some coffee?"

_Not really, no,_ John thought. But the part had to be played. Just for five more days. "Sure."

*

The sky had chosen to spit a combination of mist and snow at them as they made their way to the café; relieved to be inside, Molly took off her jacket, shaking herself slightly.

When she pushed back her sleeves to rub her hands over her arms, John's eyes instantly narrowed at the sight of the jagged scar on her right forearm.

_Old wound,_ the doctor inside of him instantly said. _Deep, very much so, but aggravated horribly. Perhaps by objects being shoved into the cut?_

It was a circumstance he'd often confronted in the war: torture marks.

"How did you get that?" He asked, nodding towards the scar.

Molly froze. _Didn't realize I'd see it; doesn't want to tell me about it._

She looked down, brushing her fingers over the six-inch line that would mar her skin for the rest of her life. Even after well over twenty years, she still thought of it as Sherlock's scar.

"It's nothing," she explained, pulling her sleeve back to her wrist. "A rather long story. It would only bore you."

**

[That's not how I wanted that scene to go at all. Blargh. Imagine that sometime during the coffee, Molly invites John to some sort of party the week after this one. John accepts, knowing he won't be attending if he has any say in it. There's just no way to fit that in there. {bangs head against the wall}]

A boring tale, indeed.

Guilt-ridden, Molly resigned herself to the fact that sleep just wasn't going to happen.

So it was that she made the journey along the now-familiar route.

The sound of her knocking on the door seemed like gunshots.

"Come in," Sherlock said wearily.

Cautiously, she stepped in.

"So…" she ventured. "Anything interesting happen since I saw you last?"

The courage to say what she wanted to had deserted her.

Sherlock, lying on his bed (she'd woken him, Molly realized with another twist of guilt) looked over at her.

"Oh, it's been a fairly boring day," he replied lightly. "My friend-" [something skipped in her chest at the word] "was tortured for information about me, and my brother decided that tonight's the night he realizes that he's actually human. Not to mention the small matter of a to-the-death fight I participated in. But that's irrelevant."

She swallowed.

"I'm sorry," Molly threw out suddenly. "I'm sorry, but they just kept going at me, and I told them everything I know. And he used it against you, I saw it- I'm the reason why he knew exactly where to aim, about the wound on your shoulder that's getting infected, and everything else. I hate myself so much, I swear-"

Sherlock raised a hand. "There's no need to apologize," he interrupted. He lifted his other arm, pulling back his right sleeve. "See?" he asked, forcing his elbow into a slightly awkward position. "We match."

Her throat tightened. "How did you get yours?"

"My father," Sherlock said simply. "You were right in suspecting that I'm abused at home. He pulled a knife once, and this was the result."

Her breath caught. Who did she think she _was?_ He'd survived so much _more_ than her. What had given her the right to rat him out? What bloody claim to life did she hold, compared to him, who'd fought for it so hard?

"I'm sorry," Molly whispered. "But… I can tell you this. I went down to the grounds because I received a text that I believed to be from Mycroft. Instead of him, I was met by someone who introduced himself as Sebastian Moran. He said that he believed that I'd already met a friend of his- Radovan Mäsiar. Right there, the memory goes black."

Sherlock closed his eyes, bringing his hands together and pressing his fingers to his lips.

"When I woke up again, Mäsiar was there," she continued. "He… I'm sure you can tell what happened. He kept working at me. Sometime along there, Moran came back. Mäsiar left, saying that he'd meet Moran back at… the base, I think he called it. Moran wanted to see you. In his words, Radovan had had a chance to fight you, but he hadn't. He considered that unfair. He might have said something about making his mark."

"His mark?"

"His kill mark, I'm pretty sure that's what he meant, from what they kept talking about. And then you showed up, and he knew exactly what to go for, and it's my fault, it's all my fault-"

"It's alright," Sherlock said quietly, standing and walking over to her as she shuddered. "I'm fine."

"It's _not_ alright," she insisted. "I gave you away, when you're so much better than I am-"

"Hardly." Sherlock's answer was quick, and cool. "The only redeeming quality about me, Molly, is my brain. I'm not particularly physically adept, and the vast majority of people enjoy telling me how devoid I am of emotion. I'm not much, Molly- certain not worth what you're putting yourself through."

"On the contrary," Mycroft said from the doorway, "It would be truthful to say that I consider you the bravest man I know."

**

Mycroft, ye hath redeemed thineself.

I'm so ashamed of the John scene, as it conveys NOTHING of what I wanted it to, absolutely nothing. It's blabber. Fecking useless blabber. GAH.


	33. Self-Esteem

Self-Esteem

33

Slowly, Sherlock turned.

"Really, it's true, if you think about it," Mycroft said nonchalantly as he walked into the room. "You faced Martinez and Vandaro alone, took Dagmar's snake without so much as a hint of hesitation and would have gone for its master if Lydia hadn't finished him. You tried to save her, and followed Radovan- again, without anyone to cover your back- until you cornered him and fought with everything you had. Then you came back here, and yet again proved yourself by facing down Moran, and beating him. That's nothing to spit at, if I say so myself."

Sherlock blinked.

"He _is_ right, you know," Molly added, for what it was worth.

*

A week passed.

And another.

Molly's wound healed without incident; due to persistent nagging by not one but two interested parties, Sherlock's began to do the same.

They scarred, deeply.

It was one day when spring was offering a taunting breath of warmth that as per their agreement, Molly walked into the school library, seeking out a secluded corner table, well hidden from sight, with only a raised paper for company.

"Well?" the paper asked.

"Not much to say," she replied.

Mycroft peered at her. "I'm disappointed."

"_Not much_ doesn't mean _nothing,_"she remarked, opening a book on forensic pathology. She didn't quite have the guts for police work, she figured, but due to the whole experience with Lydia and Sherlock, there had to be _some_ way for her to work her penance by helping put away criminals. Hence, finding and evaluating evidence in a variety of ways. It was essential, was it not?

"He's… eerily close to normal," she murmured. "He's more distant, I'll admit, than before she died. Last night was a bad one; the scar on his arm was inflamed slightly. He's a touch colder, and there's a crueler side of him now that shows only once in a while. He… often seeks solitude."

"They don't call my brother He Who Walks Alone for nothing," Mycroft said. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Molly muttered. "I saw something around his neck this morning, and as far as I can tell, he alternates between having it there or in his pocket. I don't think he's ever without it. I only caught a glimpse of a silver chain; you'll find more than me."

*

It was late at night when Mycroft came to his brother's room, and yet there he was, hunched over his microscope, as always, analyzing the reaction of some chemical to another.

"You came to investigate what Molly told you of," Sherlock said without so much as turning around or previously acknowledging the presence of his brother. He made a small _tsk_ noise with his tongue. "The envelope you'll be wanting for is in the first drawer of my nightstand. You can figure out where _it_ is. The legwork you've been doing lately, Mycroft- I'm impressed."

Unsurprised, Mycroft went to the nightstand, pulling out the envelope in question.

"No address or name."

"Quite."

He ran his fingers along the front of it. "Well-made stationery." He noticed a small insignia on the tip of the flap, and inspected it.

"Norwegian."

"Yes."

As a weight settled on his heart, Mycroft walked to Sherlock's side, his hand dipping into the pocket that was so clearly weighed down.

The chain- _dangled_ seemed the wrong word; it sort of hung in a liquid way, like water made solid by the sun- glittered even in the low amount of ambient light.

The ring swung lightly, the feathers on the phoenix's wings almost iridescent.

The entire thing was done in incredible detail, Mycroft thought, catching it with his other hand and bringing it closer to his eyes. The chain was incredibly fine, the band on the ring slender and delicate-looking, but revealing strength on a closer look; the phoenix, the ring caught in its talons, its wings spread, looked so real that one could almost believe it was on the verge of taking flight.

"The chain wasn't welded around the ring," Sherlock said. "The ring itself slides easily, and if you were to undo the clasp, you could take it off. I kept it on there, though. It didn't seem right to do otherwise."

Mycroft swallowed past the lump in his throat, putting the chain back in Sherlock's pocket.

"She gave it to you, then?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"I found it in that same drawer when I came back here after… after you left, that night. I don't know why I looked, but it was just sitting there, the envelope, with that inside. There wasn't a note or anything."

"And you kept it."

"I kept the weapon that I wrestled out of Radovan Mäsiar's hands in the instant before he tried to kill me. Do you think I would throw away this, the only physical thing that she ever gave to me?"

"No." Mycroft bit his cheek. "No, I wouldn't think so."

*

Here begins the long-ass author's note that pads the word count so I won't feel so ashamed of myself!

First: This is _not_ an AU. This is a hug-the-canon-and-don't-let-it-go Post-Reichenbach fanfic, set close to six months after the Fall. These scenes are Sherlock-Flashbacks. I pushed the line by introducing Molly; bringing in Lestrade when he explicitly states in ASiP [gawd, I'm using fan-acronyms, I AM A GEEK] that he's known Sherlock for five years would violate every rule. Same with John. His peeks are _present-day, Post-Reichenbach_ John, unless explicitly stated otherwise. For fact: we have _not_ glimpsed Flashback-John or Present-Day Sherlock yet.

So, that's that.

In other news: _ninety reviews!_ Awesome.

The Five-Day mark holds to the _just give me one week_ request John made in chapter... um… Christ, I can't remember. Let's call it the six-month anniversary of Sherlock's death, okay?

Thirty-four words until 1,000. Thirty.

Derp. Okay. More drabbles…

Oh, yeah, standard mantra:

Suggestions, requests, comments, prompts, and everything else in the kin of that is very strongly encouraged and welcomed. So there.

1,000words.


	34. Life Goes On

Life Goes On

34

"Italy?" Radovan asked, stepping onto the terrace as he stated the obvious. "Why Italy?"

"Why not Italy?" Moriarty replied from beside him, looking over the landscape.

Radovan snorted. "Going under that assumption, one could say _why not Belarus_ or _why not Germany, _or _why not America-"_

"America is overseas," Moriarty said in a bored tone. "Overseas is tedious."

"Italy is a different country than Britain," Radovan pointed out. "And the people here speak a different language."

"Last time I checked, not many people around here are likely to know who we are."

"So we're going off the map- now we're getting somewhere," Radovan stated. "So. Why are we disappearing?"

"The small matter of the girl- it's easy enough to figure out it was you, as the Holmes brothers will happily point it out. I did a small job myself, in London. Carl Powers?"

Radovan raised his eyebrows. "You were behind that?"

"Did it myself," Moriarty said proudly.

"Seb had better make his mark soon, then," Radovan quipped. "He's a misfit now, after all." He drew a pack out from under his coat. "Want a fag?"

**

Time passed.

It tends to do that.

Seven weeks, six days, and nine hours after Lydia's death, Sherlock, for all appearances, was intensely engrossed by the appearance on the wall opposite him in his dormitory.

Winter had been beaten back by spring; spring, in turn, was preening and showing off her feathers before summer came.

Summer, well, was… summer. Summer meant end-of-term, and end-of-term meant…

…home.

Or that wretched building they applied the label of _home_ to, anyway.

Why, Sherlock wondered, did people feel the need to name particularly large houses? Undershaw, the Holmes estate, didn't particularly suit the ominous name, physically.

The dynamics of the people living inside it did, but that was irrelevant.

**

_Ten weeks today, since her life was ended because of me._

Molly, sitting across from him in uncompanionably tense silence, suddenly spoke.

"I'm transferring."

Sherlock snapped out of his reverie. "What?"

Nervously, she pulled a hand through her hair. "I'm transferring next week to a different school to pull out a summer term," she said. "I might be back this fall. I don't know."

Somehow, her words stung more than they should have. She was… more than a piece in the game, Sherlock realized. She'd been the first one to openly approach him, the first to try to see beyond the hard icy shell that he hid himself behind.

He didn't realize until the wind from the door's movement and the sound it made reached him that she'd left the room without another word.

_Et tu, Molly Hooper?_

**

[imagine the author staring blankly at her laptop screen]

[imagine the author eating three things of yogurt, ten crackers (with cheese spread) and PMing a friend in search of The Muse]

[ThoroughlySherlocked, you are an ASS for not replying back]

[except not so much. Muse alert.]

With a quiet sigh, Sherlock tapped a fingernail on the edge of the keyboard.

"How does one go about phrasing these things?" he asked Mycroft.

His brother was silent.

Sherlock took a deep breath, reading the e-mail again.

_Hello._

It's been a while, hasn't it, Sherlock? I was thinking about you the other day.

I took your advice- my family and I moved back to Greece. We're doing well. Thanks for letting me get out of there before it collapsed.

Speaking of 'it' and the matter of it crumbling, I asked around, through a few old contacts- they said that after you told me to leave, the others disappeared in quick succession, but… someone died, and Radovan went into the wind. What happened, from your side of it?

If that death was you, I'm going to be pissed. Don't make me become a vigilante, please. That was always your thing.

_-Lukas_

"It's Lukas Yannatos," Sherlock murmured. "You remember him?"

"Ah," Mycroft said, turning a page in the ever-present paper. "Yes. What's happened to him? Did they get to him?"

"No," Sherlock answered quickly. "The opposite, in fact. He's in Greece, with his family. Doing well."

"And he's asked for your side of it," Mycroft finished.

"Yeah." Saying that, Sherlock went at it.

_It's a long story._

After you left, I took down Vandaro rather quickly afterwards. He put up a decent fight- poisoned me, actually. Snake venom. Now, I knew Medvedev would never come out of hiding, so I did the one thing I could to lure him out.

I took Lydia in as my accomplice. She gave me an antidote for Vandaro's little trick, which was rather kind of her.

She was instrumental; it went down rather smoothly. With Dagmar, I killed his snake; she took him herself, with an injection of a powerful tranquilizer. We caught our first glimpse of Radovan Mäsiar that time.

We were talking about how we were going to do it- she said that he would be waiting for me to go to him- when she all of a sudden picked up and left. I followed her. I thought she was going to meet with Mäsiar and betray us, but… far from it.

She was going to offer her life for mine; it was when I accidentally gave my position away that Mäsiar saw me, grabbing her and pulling her against his chest. He… realized that we'd acquired feelings for each other.

Nothing else needs to be said of that except that he killed her.

I chased him, of course. Over at least a kilometer, I'd say. But I caught up with him, and I have to say that he is physically my superior. He bested me, although when I came to, I was still holding on to his scimitar, and I had the word checkmate _carved into my arm._

It was unpleasant, to say the least.

So here were are, ten weeks and four days later.

Lino Martinez, Francesco Vandaro, Sergei Medvedev and Dagmar Zajic have all been tried on counts of burglary, theft and murder as adults. They'll be in prison for a long while.

Lydia Martensson is dead. Nothing will change that. Except…

He attached an image to the email.

_Does this necklace mean anything to you? She left it for me. I've kept it._

Good luck.

_-SH_

He sent it.

The reply was surprisingly quick in coming.

_Christ. I'm sorry, mate._

The necklace was the one thing Lydia kept on her at all times. I think it was a gift from her mother before she died; it was the thing that she'd hold in her hand on cold nights, the thing that kept her sane. Like a talisman, I suppose. If she'd had to run, and she had to pick a single thing to take with her- that would've been it. She gave it to you? That means more than anything else.

It sort of was her symbol, you could say. A phoenix. God knows the gang was like a flame to her, slowly but surely consuming. Now it's burned you, too. That almost makes you one of us, in a way.

I heard Radovan say something once, and it stuck on my mind. An old proverb, I suppose.

"_Eyes on the prey- not the horizon."_

_-Lukas_


	35. Kill Mark

Well, so much for present-day Sherlock at chapter thirty-five, eh? First the line was pushed to fifty: now, I'm thinking that 100 would be an _excellent_ mark. So. On to greater plotlines, my friends, and keep the suggestions coming.

Kill Mark

35

"Poison's a clean method. It allows you distance."

"Poison is a coward's tool, the weapon of the one who fears his quarry. A knife brings you closer, allows a fair fight, honor in combat."

"The end result is the same, aye? If all goes well, the target dies."

"Oh, fuck _me!"_ Sebastian snarled murderously (not literally), fisting his hands in his hair. "Bloody fecking _hell!_ Is this all the two of you are going to talk about?"

"Yes," Radovan said lightly, flicking the ash off of his cigarette. "It's not my fault you haven't made your kill mark, Seb."

Moriarty smirked. "He's right, you know. You're the only one here who hasn't."

"I haven't had a fecking _chance!"_ Sebastian spat. "The one time I tried-"

"You got your ass handed to you," Radovan pointed out in a delighted way. "By, let it not be forgotten, the same mark who _I_ defeated."

"You have scars," Sebastian hissed.

"That, my friend, is irrelevant," Radovan replied loftily. "Don't you agree, Jim?"

"Quite."

"Do shut up, Jim," Sebastian muttered, pacing.

Radovan snickered quietly. "Look at the poor mite, all distraught-like. All because he didn't make his mark."

"Fuck you," Sebastian cursed under his breath.

"Easy there," Moriarty commented. "In fact, Seb, we might be able to fix your little problem."

Sebastian's eyes lit with hope.

"Oh?"

Moriarty looked over to Radovan. He smiled thinly.

"Lukas Yannatos," said he, drawing a file out from under his coat and offering it to Moran. "Former friend of our comrade here-"

"-blackhearted traitor, turncoat, and servant of Sherlock Holmes," Radovan finished. "Sherlock warned him and had him escape before he took the rest of us. He was the worm, the mole we couldn't be bothered to kill. The information he passed on was never essential."

"Kill him," Moriarty ordered. "A plane will depart for Greece in six hours. Everything you need is in that folder- a false I.D, passport, cash, information on your target. Aim to kill, Sebastian, and show no mercy."

As Radovan's lips curved, his eyes skated to the window, looking at the faint vestiges of dawn beginning to show as he put out his cigarette.

"I said this once to my minions, and now I'll say it to you," Radovan murmured. "Words to live by, in my opinion."

He looked back to Sebastian.

"Eyes on the prey; not the horizon."

**

[Imagine this as Radovan's motto for the moment; pretty soon, we'll show Mycroft's. It's a line lifted from _The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim,_ for those who feel as if they recognize it, from the werewolf Skjor and the leader of the Companions, Kodlak. As he's aging, Kodlak says: _"And yet I feel my gaze turning to the horizon. To Sovngarde."_ Meanwhile, Skjor and his comrades often use the aforementioned phrase, which never fails to send a tingle down my spine.]

Greece was a nice-enough place, Sebastian supposed. If you were inclined to care about what places looked like.

He was more concerned with the people.

Crawling over rooftops, his rifle in hand, he had to admit that the thrill was incomparable.

According to all records, temporarily, he was Diogenes Melas*, a born-and-raised Greek citizen who'd lived in the country his entire life.

Oh, how liberating it was to walk the streets in someone else's skin.

But that wasn't his main purpose, Sebastian reminded himself, setting up a tripod with a _snap_ of metal joints going into proper position. No, his main purpose would go walking down this deserted path, as a matter of habit, in a few short minutes…

"There you are," Sebastian murmured, his breath fogging in the early-morning light as he peered down the rifle's scope.

_120m- 123m-_

"Yes, I know, thank you," he muttered, flicking off the automatic rangefinder built into the scope.

The tiny crosshairs fixed on his target, Sebastian allowed himself a grin.

"About fucking _time_ I made my mark," he said.

And fired.

And missed.

The shot buried into the bricks behind Yannatos, only a foot behind where his head had been; with a puff of smoke and a nice explosion of shards as the explosion rang over the city, Lukas, in record time, whirled, drawing something out from under his coat as he looked up, exactly at where Sebastian sat, wondering just how it had gone so wrong before recognizing the object as a weapon.

_Sawed-off shotgun- retro American weapon- what the _fuck_-_

The weapon fired.

The bullet smashed into Sebastian's left forearm, ripping a gash into muscle and flesh before exiting.

With an agonized howl- it felt like a white-hot rod had been pressed to the skin- Sebastian fell back.

When he managed to peer back over the ledge of the roof, Yannatos had disappeared like a ghost.

**

The wound wasn't that bad; he'd seen worse. It hadn't even gone under the skin, instead just tearing a nasty channel into his arm. It was an open wound, rather similar to one from a knife except for its width.

Stitches, Sebastian reflected after he'd done them himself, hurt almost as much as the wound itself.

What he hated the prospect of, the intensity of the emotion almost matching his shame at yet _again_ underestimating his target, was telling Jim and Radovan that had, yet again, failed.

**

It was easy enough to get back across the border: Diogenes Melas, big-game hunter, travelling to Greece for a quick trip before returning to Italy.

He had an explanation ready for the wound- cut himself dressing out game- but he didn't need it.

It was easy enough to get back to Italy, to the small village near the villa they'd acquired.

And, well, Sebastian couldn't help but wonder.

Who'd miss someone foolish enough to walk outside the city at nighttime?

**

He attached a silencer to the rifle this time, having acquired one after the incident with Yannatos, seeing how it might have changed things a bit to have one then.

He didn't bother with the tripod; on his way back to the villa, walking through the woods, he knew that there was a trail someone often used around dawn. Nature-lover, he supposed, out for a stroll.

When Sebastian Moran was desperate for his kill-mark, humanity did not matter.

He sighted through the scope again, smiling as the mark stopped and crouched to look at something.

The shot kicked back against his shoulder, due to the fact that he couldn't use his left hand quite properly without making the muscles in his arm twinge, hence lessening the recoil he could keep away from himself.

But this time, his aim was true. When he sighted in again, it was safe to assume that the hiker was dead, seeing how about half of his brain was splattered over the rocks.

**

*Diogenes is an actual Greek name. I was looking them up, and there it sat, and I was like: "Well, hell, isn't that just perfect? xD" And when I found Melas as a surname, it was just too awesome.

Imagine these two lines of text tacked on to the end of the chapter, as it felt right to end it there, but I want this to be out in the universe as well:

"You didn't kill Yannatos. I would have seen it in the papers."

"No. But I made my mark. Isn't that what matters, in the end?"


	36. Evil's Root

Evil's Root

36

Spring turned into summer; it was inevitable.

When the sky truly brightened and the weather edged towards hot, it signaled many things.

Chiefly, the end of term.

Sherlock grew quieter, more withdrawn; Mycroft watched him carefully, fully aware of the reason.

End of term meant going home.

And going home meant…

Facing _him._

**

_Bang!_

_K-chk._

_Bang!_

K-chk.

"I swear, I'm going to keep doing this until I hit the thing a hundred times in a row at three hundred meters," Sebastian hissed.

"Dull," Radovan commented, sprawled out on his back, alternating between watching clouds go across the sky and examining the minute flaws and warps of the skin on his right index finger.

"I'm going to be the best damn shot in England- fuck it, why not Europe, one day, Radovan. You just wait and see."

"Good luck with that," Radovan said airily.

"You bloody try it then!" Sebastian spat, throwing the rifle at his companion, who caught it.

Radovan stood, then dropped to a knee, sighting through the scope, compensating for the hundred-and-fifty meter distance.

_Bang!_

He put another round in the chamber.

"Dead on." He smirked. "You've got something psychosomatic going on, Seb."

"Fuck," Sebastian muttered. This time, he bothered to focus; sighting carefully, compensating.

_Bang!_

"And again, dead on," Radovan said. "You're overestimating yourself. Take it down a bit, earn your way up to the manic level you've been forcing yourself to accomplish."

Sebastian gave him an odd look as he collapsed back onto the grass.

"Italy is boring," Radovan complained.

"No arguments here," Sebastian agreed, firing off another shot.

"At least Slovakia was a place where you could torture the ghetto cats and nobody would notice," Radovan muttered. "Italy, there aren't any ghettos. Why aren't there any ghettos?"

"Beats me." He paused, mentally phrasing a question. "How did you start?"

Radovan turned his head. "Eh?"

"How did you start? I mean, what triggered you? What pushed you to become… like this?"

Radovan considered.

"I was abused when I was younger, by my father," he murmured, threading his fingers together. "It… it was a way to throw off the rage, the fear, the emotions I felt that kept just building inside of me. It kept me from turning on him, from fighting him, because he was strong enough to kill me, but I wasn't sufficient to beat him. So, I started small… I'd play with the mice I caught in traps, pretended that their squealing was him. I moved to that cats that stalked the ghettos, then the dogs, and then anything nonhuman I could get my hands on. One hundred and forty-six kills, I told you, before I made my way to Britain. I found Lino, Lukas, Francesco, Sergei and Dagmar, people who finally understood the way my mind worked. It wasn't so bad, then; I could channel myself into our plans, blackmail, thievery, the various lot of it. I was the brain, the one who held the reins.

"It was a heady feeling.

"And then they started disappearing, one by one; and a better game, Seb, has never been had, this intrigue of Sherlock Holmes. Just before I started killing cats, I realized something.

"I wasn't just throwing away excess emotion. I was in love with the thrill of the kill."

He smiled faintly.

"It's a feeling like no other, to know that you've just ended a life; Lydia was the best. To know that I'd outwitted _both_ of the Holmes brothers, that despite everything they had between them, I'd turned out to be superior? To know that I had just killed someone, outlived her, and survived to tell the tale? To fight my enemy, to defeat _him, _He Who Walks Alone, in fair combat? _Ach,_ there is no greater feeling than victory."

**

Just before entering Sherlock's dormitory, Mycroft paused.

The sound of the violin could be clearly heard; not sorrowful, this time, but intense, fast-paced, anxious.

It made his hair stand on end.

The second he entered, it broke into a new note, trembling; then dove into a series of equally unnerving tones, the muscles in Sherlock's arm rippling with the effort.

A pause; three solitary notes, followed by three more; one, three, one, three, one, three, one, and again. Five, three, and now much deeper; back to the trembling warble, now back to the hair-raising repetitive series; again, again, _again,_ picking up pace- a pause. More intense than even before, now, frantic… and the end.

Now a different tune, lower, quick, now raising in pitch. Hints of fear, perhaps; lower, now, and slower, each note sounding individually.

_Wait for it…_

It held that individuality-centered pace, but picking up speed now; now growing quieter, as the rhythm gradually slipped to an end.

With a swift motion, Sherlock set the violin down, the bow beside it; he fisted his hands several times. Mycroft noted almost absently that the skin on his fingers was raw.

"Well?" the younger Holmes demanded.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "For Christ's sake, _say_ something!" he snapped. "I can't sleep, for Christ's sake, because it feels like somebody's taken my muscles and pulled them tight. Is there anything worse than this accursed waiting?"

Mycroft was silent.

Baring his teeth, Sherlock collapsed into a chair.

"Do you think that maybe he's changed?" he asked quietly. "Maybe he won't…"

"Don't lie to yourself, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his tone indescribable. "It's the highest crime one can commit."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Do you think I could take him?" he wondered. "Do you think, seeing how I've gotten stronger, gained more skills, that if I fought him outright, I could take him?"

Mycroft adverted his gaze to the window.

"Not so much," Sherlock muttered. "Yeah, I thought so, too."

_"Arbor fructus non resurrexit odio acerbius quam,"_ Mycroft replied. _No fruit is more bitter than that of a tree raised on hate._

Sherlock stared.

"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

**

The Latin part just sort of stumbled into my mind. I tried to think of a proverb, then I made one up.

To clear things up: we have _still not seen _present day Sherlock. John is the only thing present-day. This is all flashback, young Sherlock.

This was originally the chapter "Remember the Enemy", which revealed Mycroft's words to live by. But then ThoroughlySherlocked asked for a backstory on Radovan, and between us, we threshed out this theory. This is what happened.

So yeah. Conclusion: Sherlock's afraid, Radovan's human.

The songs Sherlock played: the first, _Hunger Games: Overture, _by Sam Cushion. The second: _Happy Hunger Games,_ by the same author. Both can be found in the same video on youtube, by looking up "Music of Panem: Beginning of a Rebellion". The video is 1:24:36, if I remember correctly; almost all of the themes inside can be applied to Sherlock.


	37. Remember the Enemy

Ugh. What happens when I lose a job shift I was counting on because my boss's boss didn't tell him I wouldn't be showing up for an earlier shift_ on his word_ and a stupid eighteen-year-old banishes me for it: I'm in the right mindset to write this chapter.

_Remember the Enemy_

_37_

For all appearances, Sherlock was a statue.

Mostly.

His spine was rigid, his eyes fixed pointedly on something in the distance as the car travelled over the road. His left hand was curled into a tight fist.

His right anxiously kneaded the edge of his seat constantly.

Mycroft's eyes didn't move from that one point, watching his brother's fingers clenched and dig into the cushion.

Slowly, he looked away, staring at a point straight ahead that didn't exist, much like Sherlock.

And subtly, without him moving from that identical position in the slightest, he lifted his right arm, twisting his wrist slightly, his hand resting palm-up on the area between them.

When he felt the soft, warm touch of Sherlock's fingertips against his, his lips curved. Just slightly.

_It's alright. You're not alone. Not anymore._

**

When they pulled into the driveway, going for a distance before the car stopped and the driver got out, the two brothers waited, just for a minute.

_"Non fallit quod dixisti,"_ Mycroft said quietly, breaking the long silence. _Don't forget what I told you._

Sherlock nodded, even though the words hadn't actually been spoken aloud.

_"Nolo,"_ he promised. _I won't._

Synonymously, they opened their doors at the same moment, then closed them, advancing towards the house side by side.

_"Haud frangit animum potest."__ He can't break your spirit.___

"Numquid potest non ille?"_ Can't he?_

_"__Non confringet te. Aenean abiit et habitavit in igne.__" He won't break you. You've walked through fire and lived._

Just as the door opened, Sherlock delivered his last sentence.

_"Ego sum formidet."_

_I am afraid._

There was nothing Mycroft could say before they stepped through the doorway, both of them instinctively sweeping the area with their eyes.

Their father leaned casually against the railing of the staircase; their mother's eyes flicked nervously from his face to her son's, taking in the way the muscles in Mycroft's arms tensed visibly, his fingers brushing against Sherlock's wrist; how the younger Holmes' gaze flared with defiance as he met Kerran's invasive stare, then turned to quiet sorrow and pain as he met hers, only briefly.

_O, son of mine,_ thought Lydia Holmes, _you have changed._

"Mycroft," Kerran ordered quietly, although the more appropriate tone would have been lighter.

The elder son's eyes- the same color as his father's- glinted with something dark, but he stepped forward.

"You haven't caused any trouble," Kerran said stiffly. "You can go."

"What if I don't particularly feel like it?" Mycroft challenged, in an equally civilized tone.

Kerran's eyes flashed in return. Sherlock had an odd feeling that most of the meaning here would be transferred nonverbally.

"It was not an offer, Mycroft Dominus Holmes," Kerran threatened quietly. _"Go."_

Mycroft's nostrils flared at the use of his full name. He made eye contact with Sherlock without turning his head, raising his eyebrows; when his younger brother nodded almost imperceptibly, he went up the stairs, still wearing the light jacket he'd put on against a cool summer's rain.

It had been Sherlock's idea: matching appearances, a semblance of unity, disorient, set the stage.

When Mycroft's footsteps had faded, Sherlock met his father's eyes, quirking a brow; his took off his own jacket, hanging it up.

He'd fully intentionally worn a short-sleeved shirt underneath.

He heard his mother's breath catch, then her shaky exhale.

He could feel the disapproval coming from his father.

He bypassed him entirely, beginning to walk up the stairs.

"Where," Kerran asked in a low voice, "the _bloody _hell do you think you're going?"

Sherlock stopped, closing his eyes and he smiled to himself.

He turned, going back down.

"To my quarters," he inquired. "Why, isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

"You and I haven't finished," Kerran said. "There are things we have yet to cover."

A challenge showed in Sherlock's rebellious gaze: _get to the heart of it, already._

"You've gotten in more fights this year than any other," Kerran threw out. "I won't stand for it. You _must_ learn to hold yourself back."

Acutely aware of every sensation, Sherlock carefully fisted his hands.

"Jump to the main matter, will you, Father?" he asked. "Let's spare each other this dance."

Very deliberately, he scratched at a spot on the left side of his neck with his right hand, fully displaying Mäsiar's scar on the outside of his right upper arm.

Fury flashed in Kerran's eyes.

"It won't do for our reputation," he growled. "Tame yourself-"

"Or you'll do it for me?" Sherlock taunted.

"Sherlock," Lydia pleaded quietly. "Don't."

"I learned the lesson of not fighting hard and fast," Sherlock continued, subtly leaning slightly forward to increase his height, just by a touch. He'd grown quite a bit this year, giving the motion some weight. "You know all about it, I suppose, don't you? All those little reports they like to send home. What did you think when you heard that your younger son had nearly died, staggering through the halls covered in blood on multiple occasions? Did they figure out who it was in that clearing in the forest? You _must_ know; I heard them talking about the memo they sent out to all the parents. What did you think, when you heard of the death of Lydia Martensson, when the fingerprints near her matched those of your sons- both, and not just the one you hate? It wouldn't do, would it? How much did it cost for the police to falsify their reports?"

Kerran bared his teeth as Lydia covered her eyes.

"Listen to me," his father threatened in a low voice. Sherlock knew what the twitching of his hands meant, what was to come. "Don't you _dare_ allow yourself to become affiliated with a mudblooded sewage-crawling peasant like her-"__

That was Sherlock's snapping point.

In an instant, he drew Moran's knife, and pointed it at his father's throat.

"Don't _you_ dare insult her in my presence," Sherlock snarled. "She was a far greater person that you will ever be."

Something cold, something cruel, a wolf's rage, shone in his eyes, just for a second. It was so utterly feral and instinctive, Kerran took a step back.

"I won't stand for it."

And with that, he departed, going upstairs.

**

_[Well done, Sherlock.]_

_["Dominus" means "lord" or "young master" or almost anything along that line you can think of in Latin. I was inspired to find something in that language for Mycroft's middle name, and that popped up along the line. It was so very, very, incredibly fitting.]_

The summer passed in much the manner one might have expected it to.

Or at least, Mycroft thought, the way he'd expected it to.

Sherlock didn't entirely escape the abuse, of course. There were plenty of nights spent in his room, plenty of nights of quiet, mournful violin music, or intense, antagonized rhythms that made his heart pound faster.

Somewhere in there, Sherlock reached his eighth birthday, then passed it without so much as a thought to it.

It went quickly enough, Mycroft supposed. The weather began to cool, eventually.

His stomach dropped through the floor when their schedules arrived early and they compared them: Mycroft was scheduled to start a week earlier than Sherlock.

Things grew edgier. The bruises grew darker. On one occasion, Sherlock came to his room one night with three fingers in his right hand broken.

He practically ignored it.

A new marker, however, was set one night on one of the times where Mycroft had gone to Sherlock. Sherlock had picked up the bow to his violin, beginning to draw it across the strings when Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"Show me your right arm."

Sherlock pulled it closer to his chest as Mycroft stood, approaching his younger sibling as one might a frightened dog.

It was a significant sign when Mycroft held out a hand and Sherlock wordlessly allowed his sleeve to be pushed back.

The livid red mark- four inches long- was frighteningly clear against the pale alabaster.

"He's moved on to burns instead of just blows," Mycroft breathed, some strange ache lancing his chest.

Sherlock drew a quick breath and swallowed as Mycroft laid his fingers against the mark, noting how warm it was compared to the skin around it.

"Yes," he said quietly, and his voice trembled.

*

The day finally came.

Mycroft was fully aware of what he was doing. He was abandoning his younger brother to seven days of terror, fear and pain, with no safe harbor to flee to.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the predawn quiet deafening. It was better this way; an early train to London, getting settled in early, avoiding a scene with their parents.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, shrugged.

But gently, carefully, with utmost concentration, he laid his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

There was something he had to say; it would be, quite possibly, one of the most important things he'd said so far in his life.

"Remember the enemy," Mycroft murmured, dawn reaching over the horizon.

Radovan's phrase: _Eyes on the prey, not the horizon._

Mycroft's: _Remember the enemy._

They fit quite well, I think.

Last chapter didn't get a single review. I'm wounded.


	38. The Lesser and Greater Circles of Hell

The Lesser and Greater Circles of Hell

_{Christ, can it be 38 already?}  
_  
_{I have this stupid idea for a wingfic stuck in my head. It won't go away. Goddamn you, brain. Focus. We're not going to do two fics at the same time. That means disaster.}_

38

_When you can't run, you hide._

_When freedom means unnecessary pain, lock yourself in a cage._

Wearily, Sherlock looked blankly out of his window.

For all he could care, it could be snowing out there. It'd suit him much better than a pristine summer day.

A small, white bird fluttered up to the windowsill, peering into the room.

_And here, the feral animal has greater power than I._

On closer look, it wasn't pure white; mottled with increasingly dark shades of grey, it seemed oddly symbolic.

As Sherlock gave it his full attention, it jumped off of the sill, winging away in a great arcing flight over the moor, weaving freely.

As he had nothing better to do, Sherlock went to the window.

The bird seemed so carefree, without a single worry in the world as it played.

_Not a single threat to you, is there?_

The motion off to the side caught his eye; the blue-brown streak, a peregrine falcon, whipped through the air at an incredible speed.

The bird screeched in fear, diving suddenly to evade. The chase was short.

The peregrine caught the sparrow in its talons, and killed it instantly.

Sherlock turned away.

_Symbolic. A more complete metaphor, I should think, would be hard to find._

**

In the end, it was the transport that betrayed him.

Irritated, Sherlock snarled under his breath as he fisted his hand, trying to quell the tremors that ran through his muscles.

Hunger was inconveniently inescapable.

He glanced out the window.

_It's nighttime. I could risk it._

He drew open a drawer, taking Moran's knife into his hand.

_Nothing left to lose._

He knew where to walk, where the steps creaked and where they were silent; how to navigate exclusively by touch, the darkness overwhelming.

_Nine steps forward, turn, five, turn, six, turn, sixteen, downstairs. Kitchen, front and right._

He'd crept to one of the cupboards, surveying his choices just as there was a loud clatter behind him.

Sherlock turned in an instant, whipping out the knife and pointing it at the source of the noise.

"Master Sherlock," one of the servants gasped, clutching her broom to her chest, "you gave me quite a scare."

Distrustfully, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he lowered the knife.

_Young, twenty-seven or so. Needed the money, heard about a vacancy at the Holmes residence for a housekeeper, signed up. Was accepted because everyone local knows the horror stories of Undershaw._

"Simbelmynë," he asked, "what are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted. "So, I figured I might as well put myself to use."

Sherlock tilted his head. "At an uncivilised hour of the morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Without turning any lights on?"

Visible in the moonlight, a blush rose over her cheeks. "Yes, sir."

"You'll need to find a quicker mind for excuses than that if you expect to survive here," he said brusquely, turning back to the cabinet. "My father encourages such things."

She swallowed audibly. "But what, sir, did you come down for?"

"Something to eat," he replied stiffly. "Isn't it obvious?"

Simbelmynë was one of those who were truly human in the Holmes residence; among the staff, there was a great deal of talk.

She knew.

"I- they told me, about the Lord, sir, your father, about what he- what he does to you-"

Sherlock stiffened. "Your point?" he demanded.

"It seems, master Sherlock, sir, that instead of risking yourself to come downstairs, I could help. I could bring supplies up to your room, sir, and nobody would be the wiser."

Acutely aware of the deep look those green eyes were giving her, Simbelmynë straightened.

"Sir," she added.

His expression softened.

"Don't call me _sir,_ if you will," Sherlock murmured. "The Lord Acerspina is my father, the Lady my mother, and _sir_ is my brother."

_{Acerspina, translated from Latin, is "sharpthorn".}_

Simbelmynë's eyes glinted in the light as she stepped forward. "And what are you, then?" she asked softly.

"I, Simbelmynë?" Sherlock turned to her, fully.

"I am nothing."

**

Evasion was successful.

With the aid of a defiant servant- an unexpected development, but an incredibly fortunate one- Sherlock survived. Encounters with his father were kept to a minimum, easing things on all sides.

The week of terror ended.

And before going to his own dormitory, Sherlock thought, he had a detour to make.

He quickly trotted up steps that didn't lead directly to his destination, thanking a higher power that the train had been delayed, causing him to arrive late at night.

He snapped a knuckle against Mycroft's door, then set off a quick series of communicative sounds.

_Tap-tap, tik-tik-tik tik-tik-tik, tap tik-tik-tik, tik-tik-tik tap-tap, tap, tap-tap, tik-tik-tik._

The reply was quick in coming.

_Welcome back to the lesser circle of hell._

A pause.

_Morse code? I'm impressed._

Sherlock, for the first time in what felt like years, grinned.

**

Sherlock's message is easy to translate: _I made it._ Swear to God, if I have to type "tap" one more time, SOMEBODY DIES.

It doesn't sound like a word anymore.

Seriously: OUT OF IDEAS, FOLKS. NEED SUGGESTIONS. Just timeskip now and save the filler hassle, and get it over with? It seems Druggie-Sherlock is in high demand, but we've got to explain the years that lie between! Is there anything, _anything_ at all that you might want to see, or possibly imagined between the two brothers? I swear, I'll take on anything right about now. Come on, guys, I posted a oneshot day before yesterday because I couldn't come up with this chapter! Give me fresh meat!

Twenty-six words to one thousand. I can spend them.

Um…

They say confession is good for the soul. I encourage it. Strongly.

Four, three, two, 1,000.


	39. Consulting Detective, Sort Of

Consulting Detective… Sort Of

39

_{insert brilliantly witty author's note here}_

"I'm bored," Sherlock muttered, staring at the ceiling.

"Too bad for you, then," Mycroft replied, turning a page in The Paper.

Sherlock groaned. "You don't get it," he insisted, rolling on to his side to face his brother. "I. Am. Bored."

"Entertain yourself."

"I tried." Sherlock dramatically flopped back to his ceiling-pondering position. "It didn't really work."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "How many things did you set on fire?"

"Forty."

Mycroft snorted.

And at that instant, there was an incredibly loud crash- judging by the muffled quality of the sound- five floors below. Possibly seven.

Sherlock shot upright, while Mycroft lowered the paper slightly to look at the door.

Slowly, the brothers looked at each other.

Sherlock snickered quietly. "I _knew_ that would fix it."

**

{This is the part where the author giggles because she was searching for a "Murphy's Law"- like term for something she wanted to describe and came out with a military acronym. Wikipedia, I love you.}

"Well."

Postures identical, the two brothers stood in the doorway, almost philosophically examining the carnage before them.

The lab was an epicenter of chaos. Glass shards covered the floor- every expansive inch of it- and what had been on the tables, was on the floor. What had been on the walls, rested on the tables. The tables, themselves, well, they were slightly capsized.

Sherlock made a soft _chk_ sound with his tongue.

"Your opinion, Sherlock?"

"TARFU," Sherlock commented. "Or, possibly, but equally accurately, FUBAR."

_{This is what happens when I write at 10:51 before my second wind. Sue me.}_

"I heard a noise," Molly said, coming up behind them- so she'd come back after all, Sherlock filed away with another smirk (he'd recognized her footsteps)- "Nobody else could be bothered to come and find out what it was. What _was_ it, by the way?"

_{Pity the poor brain, which refuses to spit out ideas, and forces me to lower myself to low-grade humor!}_

Sherlock stepped to the side.

Her breath caught.

"SUSFU," he added, for her benefit.

**

{Disregard that scene entirely, except for its plot. It's… a blooper! Yes, a blooper. XD}

[Translations, for those who be down on their slang/ fuzzybrained: _TARFU:_ "totally, and royally, fucked up". I'm pretty sure we all know what the second one is, but _SUSFU_ inspired the blooper: _situation unchanged: still fucked up._ This was going to be so serious and awesome and cool and then… and then I saw the meaning of 'susfu' and this happened.}

The police came, of course.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock demanded, on the tenth occasion that an officer looked at him askance. "He was around six feet tall, right-handed. He most likely has short, straight blonde hair, and was wearing thick-soled hiking boots. Possibly elkhide gloves."

He considered the broken window he and the inspector were standing by, then revised his opinion.

"Definitely elkhide gloves. Virgin color."

"And how," the inspector asked wearily, "do you know that?"

"Can't you _see?"_ Sherlock lifted up the frame of the window, brushing the glass-dust off of the sill with his hand, despite the officer's protests _{kill me if it's highly unsuitable to call a European policeguy an officer} _and leaning out.

"The pockmarks on the bricks," he explained impatiently. "How did he get in? The windows. How did he reach the windows? The grooves between the bricks don't quite hold a man's weight, the cracks in them aren't quite big enough to wedge your fingers in them. He had an instrument, then. See the little holes? He used stakes, like the ones ice-fishermen use to pull themselves out when they fall through."

The officer gave him an odd look. "And how do you know his height, hair color, and the other things?"

Sherlock made a despairing sound.

"A man's armspan is usually very close to his height is not exactly the same," Sherlock rattled off. "So, going by the distance between the marks, he was about six foot. The marks show differently when they're to his right: he's stronger on his right side, pulls himself up faster. Logic says right-handed."

"The boots?"

Sherlock gave him a look that said _honestly, how thick are you?_ "_Look at the glass!"_ he cried out, waving a hand at the floor. "You and I had to both step carefully to reach this point without stabbing ourselves. But look at the shards! They're disturbed in paths, and he wasn't moving with any particular attention to his movements. Ergo, thick-soled shoes. The boots? Look at the scuff marks on the _bricks!_ Black rubber, regular, sideways, the tread partially showing! The boots are new, and the tread is wrong for a shoe. As he clearly planned well enough to bring ice stakes, he would have worn boots fitting the activity. Lo, hiking boots."

"The gloves?"

"How thick _are_ you?" Sherlock demanded. "The tiny pieces of dust left on things he held too tightly from the suede on his gloves!" To make a point, he ducked quickly, swiping a finger on the floor under the windowsill, holding it up for the inspector's attention. "He grabs the sill when he comes in, it gets scraped off. Thick grain. That suggests heavy game; elk is most likely. Light gold means close to virgin color, only secondhand dying from being stored with other dyed hides before being processed for the gloves." Delicately, he took in the scent of it. "Commercially tanned."

The inspector stared.

"And the hair?" he asked tentatively.

Sherlock gave him a truly spectacular _I have lost all hope in you_ look, and then plucked a hair off of the windowsill.

**

XD

That chapter was awesome. After the lame acronym bit, it was awesome. *giggle*


	40. Pirates

{Chapter forty. What shall we name it? It's a milestone; a pair of twenties, four sets of ten. It's remarkable. Fifty, here we come. I wonder what plotline we'll be following then?}

Pirates

40

"Well, that was _tedious."_

Sherlock spat the word as if it were a curse as he collapsed dramatically onto his bed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, settling himself into The Chair, assuming The Position- legs crossed at the knee, occasionally varying to ankle-on-knee- and, finally, opening The Paper once more.

"Trust you to find a police investigation tedious."

"But it _was!"_ Sherlock cried. "The one inspector who listened to me was a complete idiot!"

"What did he do?"

"He didn't even _see_ the glove-dust under the windowsill," Sherlock moaned, grabbing his pillow and covering his face with it.

The horror of that was utterly soulshocking. So completely so, Mycroft lowered The Paper in a sudden movement that caused it to crinkle against his legs.

_"He didn't see the dust under the windowsill?"_

"No," Sherlock mourned. "Or the pockmarks in the bricks. Or the way the intruder's boots were thick-soled hiking boots."

"I could see the dust under the sill from thirty feet away," Mycroft muttered. "Large, irregular grains intermixed with dust. Very clearly leather dust. Large game. Elk. Virgin color."

Sherlock threw the pillow to his right, where it bounced off the wall and hit him in the head again, completely nullifying the effort. _"Yes! _Why can't they _see?"_

"God only knows," Mycroft sighed, flaring The Paper dramatically. "Almost everyone's an idiot."

**

_{I have no idea why that scene turned out to be so funny. xD But there is one thing: when Mycroft lowers The Paper so suddenly that it crinkles against his legs, it is serious shit. Serious. Shit.}_

{I changed the bit where Sherlock throws the pillow to that it actually does hit him in the head. That was what it took to make me finally giggle.}

_Click, click, click._

Both Holmes brothers raised their heads at the sound of shoes outside Sherlock's door- this requiring an amount of effort on Sherlock's part, seeing as he was still laying down- approaching quickly, then pausing, then picking up again.

"Courier delivering memos," Sherlock stated.

Predictably, when the footsteps stopped outside his door, a piece of paper was wedged between the door and its frame, the corner showing on their side.

The footsteps travelled away as Sherlock instantly sprang up, delicately pulling it out and unfolding it.

"Notification for the idiots who didn't hear it happen," Sherlock read out. "Saying how chemistry and biology classes, among others, have been either relocated, rescheduled or cancelled. Shame. And… they caught him."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Sixteen-year-old Marcus Tulibee, of no place of particular importance, broke in at 1:53 A.M, via window, proceeded to cause chaos and mayhem and the cataclysm, etcetera, etcetera…"

And then he laughed, tossing the note at Mycroft.

"And the gloves were instrumental, in the end of it." Sherlock snorted. "Look. _Due to a tip from an anonymous source-_ while I specifically told the inspector my name- _the suspect was apprehended, due to traceable marks from items of his clothing. _What else besides the gloves?"

"Still considering piracy as a career option?" Mycroft asked, skimming through the letter, more than slightly amused.

"Yes, if all Scotland Yard inspectors turn out as irritating as that one," Sherlock confided, collapsing back on to his bed.

Just in time for the courier to double back and put _another_ note through the door.

With an irritated growl, Sherlock stood back up. "Couldn't have put it in the first time?" he muttered, opening the envelope.

And then, curiously, the tension eased out of his shoulders. An odd light showed in his eyes as he tilted his head slightly.

"Oh," Sherlock said quietly.

Curiosity piqued, Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed. "What is it?"

Sherlock read the note through again before doing so again aloud for his brother's benefit.

_"To Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"_ he murmured, _"the force of Scotland Yard wishes to express their gratitude for his assistance in the matter of a break-in at Kimbolton School on October 31. Without said assistance, the case would have taken more time and resources to solve._

For this we again give our thanks. Enclosed is a token of our appreciation. We hope that this correspondence leads to further cooperation."

He lifted a silver medal from the envelope, running his fingers over it.

"The Royal Victorian Medal," Mycroft breathed fervently. "Awarded for personal service to the Sovereign, or to the Royal Family."

"Interesting," Sherlock replied, finding the motion of stroking the cool silver surface strangely addictive. "Very interesting."

"Still considering piracy as a career option?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Possibly." Again, he ran his fingers over the etchings and decorations on the medal. "But the rewards of the opposite are rather appealing."

**

Aw. Sherlock. Charmed by a simple Royal Victorian Medal.

That is most likely wrong. I wikipedia'd which school would conveniently have Mycroft and Sherlock together, but I had to choose a _location._ Gah. So I went for northeast of London. Then I skimmed through a list, frequently checking a separate table of age-to-school-years. Kimbolton fit the marks. I made it October 31 because I could. I wanted Sherlock to have a medal, and I tried to find a fitting one, I really did, I swear! So I fined it down to the Victorian Order, and then the Royal Victorian Medal. Then I learned that there were lesser grades than the Victorian, but then the article for _that_ one didn't show what was below it clearly, so I just stuck with my choice. Because the Royal Victorian is pretty.

So yes: I know that _New Scotland Yard_ would most likely _not_ give an eight-year-old amateur detective a Royal Victorian. If there's a Brit out there knowledgeable about this sort of thing, please review or something so that I have a reference for this. This was invented on a whim at 11:27 Central Standard Time- that's _P.M, _by the way- so my ideas probably won't have time to pass moderation. But it's the thought that counts. I entered the chapter with the theory, sort of!

Marie: the suggestion was quite a while ago. When you find it, you will most likely go "oh noes what have I done?!". XD

Lo613: I'm perpetually open to prompts. Feel free to prompt anytime. In response: this entire backstory started as an attempt to explain the Sherlock-Mycroft hate. The catalyst for _I hate your stinking guts, go away and die_ on Sherlock's side is shown in chapter one _(which was supposed to be a oneshot before the main story: XD) _at age eleven. I'm… trepidious (new word was just invented before your very eyes) about rewriting it, but it must happen. The _We care, but we pretend not to, because we're Holmeses, dammit _attitude is developed… oh, twenty years from now. How does Sherlock end his druggie phase? By overdosing, of course. Oh, Mycroft, I can _see_ your angst.

ThoroughlySherlocked: Can't _anything_ be simple and nice and innocent? Of course not. *smirk*

How many times do I have to tell you that we won't see a Sherlock-Moriarty showdown in flashback? Really. Wait. Twenty years or so plottime.

Prompts completed in this chapter: piracy mention. I snuck it in there quite well. Not completed: "What's Molly been up to?".

We'll tackle that soon.

Also, I remember teasing about her a few chapters back: Tephangi. Anybody remember the name? Well, she's a stocky British Labrador, yellow color. She's also got heartworm problems. Theorize away.

This is the part where I realize this is an A/N that is beginning to eclipse the chapter. I'll shut up now.


	41. Scars from His War

_{In other news: I got a tumblr. I can be found at . God help us. I made an ask section, and a submit section, as well. So if you feel like either asking "WTF does xxx mean" or "what about doing 'this' in the plot", feel free. Do you see the clever little thing I did with the title?}_

Scars From His War

41

Quite alone- or as alone as one could be in a café- Molly sipped at her coffee, staring at nothing in particular.

_How did you get that scar?_

She could feel it distinctly, suddenly self-conscious of the ridge of red scar tissue on her right forearm.

_It's nothing._

That was one of the biggest lies she'd ever said.

Well, maybe not, she reflected, given recent events, but it was really rather significant.

_It's when Sherlock saved my life. My war-wound._

But, well, she couldn't really say his name, could she?

But the reunion after her departure: _that_ was something that had yet to fade from her memory.

**

"So, Molly," Sherlock asked conversationally, picking dirt out from under his fingernails with Moran's dagger, "how was your vacation?"

Oddly nervous, she fidgeted and swallowed. _Why,_ she wondered, _do I feel so guilty because my parents pulled me out?_

"It was fine," she replied shakily. "I… it was good."

"That's nice to know," Sherlock commented.

"And… and you?"

Sherlock only looked at her, raising his eyebrows. He returned back to focusing on his fingernails.

An incredibly subtle twitch (unnoticed by Molly) made his right sleeve fall back to his elbow, the left pulling back halfway along his arm.

Her breath caught.

Even months later, red burn-marks still showed; ranging in size from equal to one of her fingertips to long, ragged stripes, there were at least twenty on his right side alone, crossing in patterns that failed to make sense.

"As pleasant as it could have been, given the circumstances," Sherlock said. "But, you know, circumstances are one of the most unstable variables."

Quickly, Molly stood.

Something had happened.

She needed to find Mycroft.

*

"Well?" he asked the instant she opened the door.

She paused. "You were expecting me?"

"Of course." The elder Holmes raised an eyebrow. "It was easy to assume that once you went to see my brother, you would come to me, seeing how he's changed."

"Why?" Molly asked.

Mycroft sighed.

"You know that his father- _our_ father, I should say, even though he seems to be a different man at times- is abusive, specifically towards Sherlock. He's never touched me in that manner. Such a thing tends to sear a person's essence, like cauterizing a wound."

That was an incredibly fitting analogy.

"Sherlock is nothing like his peers: this you have seen for yourself," Mycroft murmured. "A young heart is tender, and lacks the steel it needs to have to shield itself from cruelty. Hence why most children are shielded from such things. My brother… when I returned from my school term when he was four, he was different. His personality had altered. He was, however, still a fairly normal child, or as close to normal as Sherlock Holmes had ever come. When he was five, the abuse started."

Molly closed her eyes.

"The pain was more than physical, burrowing into his soul and changing him again. He learned to be distant, to hold emotions at an arm's distance. He learned to be bitter, and that his chance for innocence had passed. He learned that he had to view the world through an adult's eyes, to acquire an adult's personality, to shield himself from the cruelty of another.

"That is why my brother is He Who Walks Alone, the Shadow in the Dark. Because he has seen the evil that lives in the hearts of men, and he knows it. It drives him to be separate, in fear of more pain. Lydia's death further burned that scar into him. He will learn to accept it, to live with it. It will never fade."

"And that explains…"

"How he is so quick to accept the factor of violence, having seen so much of it himself. You saw him on that night, or the other ones where he was in combat with his enemy; he knows the feel of a knife in his hand, what points to aim for on a body, because he _knows_ there will be trouble. If you had seen the snake after he'd finished with it, you would have understood that he's also trained for just such a thing; that was a killing blow that required strength. My brother is a warrior, a survivor. He will cling to things with the utmost stubbornness, and willing to fight tooth and nail, not necessarily by the rule, when he has to. His mind is an enigma, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of memories and experiences that shift and affect each other constantly. Emotion is slowly lessening its hold, and in its place is a highly refined machine of utter efficiency. _Caring is not an advantage,_ I told him once. Sherlock Holmes is not one to take another's words for something; he will be driven to find the answer himself, and to prove someone else wrong. He will gladly outlive God trying to have the last word, and is, in some aspects, the polar opposite of myself."

Mycroft smiled, just slightly.

"God only knows how we can be in the same room for more than three minutes without ripping each other to shreds."

**

Mycroft's analysis of Sherlock became suddenly sad. I'm not sure why, but… it just seems really sad to me. It's just… really, really sad.

Because Mycroft can tell that Sherlock is unconsciously breaking one of the rules he told his brother? _"I want to die as myself, not a piece in someone's games."_ But right now, in the grand scheme, nothing is _him. _Nearly all of the facets of his personality can be rooted in someone else's actions.

That… is one of the deepest pieces of writing I've done, I think. I'll leave it here. As always, review and prompt. I'm always open.


	42. The Many Hidden Facets of an Assassin

The Many Hidden Facets of an Assassin

42

The Slovakian was a strange one, Sebastian mused, giving him an odd look out of the corner of his eyes. At first appearance, Radovan Mäsiar was admittedly not quite ordinary; abnormally tall, steel-grey eyes that glinted with power, and close-cut dark hair, combined with _very_ well-muscled hands warranted a second glance.

That second glance would reveal some more interesting facts: ambidexterity, fluency in Slovakian (which he would occasionally curse in), English, Spanish and Russian [with a few sketches of Italian], and a secret admiration for Arabian swordcraft.

And, apparently, skill with a harmonica.

He poked at the fire while watching as Radovan coaxed a long, quavering note from the instrument, making the hair on Sebastian's arms stand on end as he nervously gripped the stick in his hands.

When he recognized the song as an ancient tune- a plea from a widow to her lover, begging him to return- his nerves snapped.

"Stop that, will you?" Sebastian asked under his breath, the words fogging in the cold air as he swept the treeline with his eyes.

Radovan opened his eyes. "Does it disturb you, Seb?"

"Yes," Moran snapped. "It's just… the fucking place feels like it's fucking haunted, okay?" he breathed. "And that- that- it just makes them feel closer, y'know. Jesus, you could end up summoning a ghost with that thing."

Radovan raised his eyebrows. "Do you want to try?"

"No!" Seb cried vehemently. "It's just- for Christ's sake, Radovan, _stop it!"_

The Slovakian's eyes mocked him, but Radovan tucked it back inside his jacket.

"If you say so," he murmured, turning back to the fire, warming his fingers. "You Irish are so _touchy."_

**

_November 2, 1989._

{I think I'm dangerously close to actually having a correct timeline. *juggles math* Actually, yeah, this fits with BBC. Hot damn!}

"Time is a strange thing, Mycroft."

Mycroft paused in his paper-reading as Sherlock watched the first snowflakes of the year flick past the window, in a rather philosophical fashion.

"You just realized this now?"

"No." Sherlock sighed. "It's just…"

Mycroft lowered The Paper slightly- not as much as in The Glove Incident, as a crinkled paper was _unacceptable._ "What, then?"

"A different day," Sherlock finished. "One where the passage of time creeps into a stagnant brain and turns its power to darker thoughts."

"Ah," Mycroft murmured, and said nothing more.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the ceiling, giving in to the strains of thought that usually lurked at the back of his mind. Now, no longer held back by more pressing matters, they ran free.

_Thirty-five weeks, six days,_ a part of his mind registered.

And for once, he let that part of his mind dominate.

**

_Twenty-five weeks, three days._

_Four days left to go._

Acutely aware of every breath going through his lungs- maybe it was because he knew they were limited?- John sat on the edge of his bed, his hands covering his face.

_It'll be six months to the day. Fitting._

_Four days. Ninety-six hours. 5,760 minutes. 345,600 seconds._

It sounds like so much more, when you put it that way. Strange how time measures and passes.

What am I going to do?

He'd spent time waiting, almost _six bleeding months of it._ Some men were content to wait their entire lives for something.

But this man was Captain John Hamish "Three Continents" Watson, M.D., of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He lived for adrenaline.

In the army, he'd been liable to become unbearable after three days of nonaction.

And suddenly inspired, he lunged off of the bed, grabbing his laptop off of the desk by the wall, sitting back down and opening it for the first time in… months.

He brushed the dust off of the screen and keyboard- Christ, it was thick- and quickly went to his blog.

The light that had been extinguished glowed again in his eyes as he opened a new draft for an entry.

_Type them up, post them in quick succession the day of, and then…_

_"Why didn't they just kill me?"_

The words of Henry Knight floated through his brain at that moment. So did the reply.

_"Because dead men get listened to, Henry!"_

_The voice of a dead man is the clearest,_ John thought. _If that's what it takes, so be it._

_It has been months since I last posted here._

All of you have heard the news. I need not repeat it.

This is my side of the story, six months to the day: the true story of Sherlock Holmes.

What follows is an inclusion of details I omitted from our previous cases, followed by a tell-all account of the final case.

The tale of Jim Moriarty.

The first in a series: A Study in Pink…

_**_

I didn't expect John to show in this chapter. I did plan the blogging, vaguely, as a possibility.

To clarify: he's currently typing up what he left out of _A Study in Pink._ He'll save it as a draft- _not posting it-_ and type up the others. Then, finally, the tale of Richard Brook/Jim Moriarty.

To be queued and posted rapid-fire at the time of his suicide.

Damn, that gives _me_ chills just thinking about it. The world in turmoil, the lies crumbling, and above it all: _John dying._

_What have I done?_


	43. Edmund Holmes

Edmund Holmes

43

_…and that is how the same night I moved in with Sherlock, I also ended up killing a cab driver and discovering the name of a criminal mastermind._

Installment two soon to follow: "The Blind Banker", uncensored

Save as Draft?

John tapped a key.

_Entry saved._

His eyes were humorless, his gaze that of a soldier in file, prepared to deploy.

He started the next.

**

It was strange: Sherlock could have sworn that he'd closed his eyes just for a second and November had whipped by.

It wasn't until he went to mark the date on a paper when Mycroft pointed it out.

"It's the fifteenth, Sherlock, not the fifth," he corrected absentmindedly.

The steady scratching sound of pen against parchment halted.

_"What?"_

"I said," Mycroft repeated mildly, "that it's the fifteenth, not the fifth."

Sherlock blinked.

"Time does pass quickly," Mycroft observed, scanning his newspaper. "Did you know that Andrei Sakharov died yesterday?"

Sherlock set down the pen, digging his fingernails into his palm.

"I didn't tell you?" Mycroft murmured. "Grandfather will be there this year."

Sherlock's head snapped up.

Maybe there was some hope of salvation, after all.

**

Edmund Holmes, father of Kerran Holmes, was nothing whatsoever like his son.

His eyes were a deep, rich brown, almost like mahogany; his hair showed red in sunlight, but was almost black outside of it.

The first was a quality that in this generation, belonged exclusively to him; the latter, shared in unequal degrees between his grandsons.

It was a fact that almost nothing of Edmund could be found in his son.

It was something that set a deep rift between them.

Hence, the winter stroll through the grounds.

In silhouette, the two were somewhat alike; if someone would have looked out the windows of the house and seen them (which, being inquisitive, several of the servants [including Simbelmynë] did), the relationship between the two would have been fairly obvious.

As they walked side by side, Edmund gave his son a look. Where he himself had some powers of observation, Kerran lacked entirely, while somehow Sherlock and Mycroft made up for that lack tenfold.

"You treat him too roughly," Edmund said softly.

"It's necessary," Kerran snarled.

Edmund bristled. "It is not," he replied in a low voice. He stepped into his son's path, looking down at him. He'd held on to the advantage of height, all these years.

"It _is-"_

"Did I ever touch you that way?" Edmund demanded. "Did I ever beat you?"

Kerran bared his teeth. "No," he admitted.

"Then where the hell did I go wrong?" he spat. "I raised you properly, did nothing that my father hadn't. Was it just born into you, Kerran, this coldness that would allow you to nearly kill your own flesh and blood?"

Fury glared in the son's eyes; he spat at his father's feet. "It is no business of yours-"

Edmund seized him by the collar, lifting him off the ground.

"Don't _dare_ to ever do that again," he growled. "It is every business of mine. You, to my very great regret, are my only son. Through you is the only sign of me, our bloodline. The title, Kerran. You and I both bear it; the Lord Sharpthorn, a name that has endured for countless centuries."

"Mycroft is the only one that matters, viewing it through that lens," Kerran hissed. "He's the firstborn. He'll inherit it. Sherlock is only the spare."

"You _murderer!"_ Edmund accused, shaking him. "So help me God, if you touch Sherlock again, I will no longer stand by. You will wish you had never been born, _Dominus Acerspina."_

**

_{Why did Edmund call Kerran a murderer when Sherlock didn't actually die? *whistles innocently, twirls villain-mustache*}_

"Relax," Mycroft muttered, finding his brother's silence more unnerving than his previous twitching on their last trip home. "You know how Grandfather is."

Sherlock looked pointedly out the window. "I do."

"You won't have anything to worry about," Mycroft insisted. "It's always easier for you when he's around."

_"Easy_ is relative, Mycroft," Sherlock quipped. "What would you know of it?"

At that, Mycroft looked away. He did know next to nothing of the matter at hand, personally.

"But still."

"Yes," Sherlock sighed. "But still."

*

In the end, it was actually a fairly minor event that triggered it.

It was when he knocked over a vase- a fairly minor vase, and he caught it, but the sentiment was the same- just by brushing too close to a table that it happened.

Of course, his luck being abysmal, his father was in the room.

He fully expected the hand that gripped tightly on the back of his neck, the feeling of losing contact with the ground. He braced himself mentally, preparing for the blow.

It never came.

_"Stop."_

The word seemed to come from everywhere, from nowhere, all at once. Kerran instantly let go of Sherlock (the latter eagerly scrambled away, then turned back to assess the situation) as Edmund stepped into the room.

_Waiting in the wings,_ Sherlock realized.

"I did warn you," Edmund said in such a civilized tone that Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Do you remember?"

Kerran straightened, defiantly. "Yes."

_"Quid dixisti. Sequitur me non cognovit umquam tibi promissa, Kerran Holmes?"_

I told you what would happen. Have you ever known me to not follow through on my promises, Kerran Holmes?

The son's hands clenched into fists as he faced his father.

_"Non pater. Nomen tuum quoniam lapsum. Timentibus nullae derelicta, dum memoria nominis. Quis autem ruinam esse?"_

No, Father. But you have let your reputation lapse. There are none left who fear you, while they remember my name. Who, then, is the failure?

When Edmund gave such a look that Kerran instantly quailed- so _that's_ where Mycroft learned it- Sherlock thought it one of the most impressive things he'd seen.

_"Si habeam tui memoriam uti timeret, filius meus es tu. Potestatem habeo ad te. Dominus non Acerspina, titulus donetur cum ad etatem Mycroft sicut oportet. non es filius meus Kerran Holmes. vestra a die hac, Abdico te ."_

"If you have to resort to fear to have someone remember you, then you are no son of mine. I still have the power over you. You are no longer the Lord Acerspina; the title will be given to Mycroft when he comes of age, as it should be. You are no longer my son, Kerran Holmes. From this day forward, I disown you."

**

Oh, hell, yes! Well done, Grandfather Holmes. Well done. The bastard deserves it.

Many thankyous to the veryveryvery lovely Squibler, of tumblr! She was the one to give Edmund his name- Germanic for _protection,_ fittingly- and is now in the process of converting my mess into a podfic! That's right: _podfic!_

Also, I recommend you go over and read ThoroughlySherlocked's pieces in the meantime while waiting for me. Her stuff's good, and as she puts up with me ranting at her and flooding her email inbox, she deserves a rec. And she begged for one. So she got one. xD

By the way, ThoroughlySherlocked, I'm pretty sure you died from that PM I sent you. You said you were ready to kill me and then you disappeared. Sorry about that.

In other news, Sherlock's been haunting me, apparently. Triggering ads on tabs I haven't touched in forever, making little buzzing sounds in the ceiling of my friend's place. Say hai, Sherlock.


	44. Stradivarius

Stradivarius

44

When Edmund turned and swept from the room, his son was predictably paralyzed by shock.

Seizing his chance, Sherlock broke into a sprint, going for the stairs, ducking into the same alcove Mycroft had hidden in.

"I've always liked Grandfather," he breathed, grinning.

**

"Exile," Sherlock murmured, unable to hold back the ecstatic feeling of joy. "He _disowned_ our father. And yet he kept us inside the line; did you hear him? _The title will pass to Mycroft when he comes of age._ If you still have a name, so do I."

"How many times are you going to say that?" Mycroft asked softly, lying on his back in his bed. And yet a small smile wouldn't leave his face.

Sherlock pressed his hands together, bringing his fingers to his lips, his eyes glowing. "Exile," he repeated. The highest dishonor he could have ever received, the blow that would hit the weak point in his armor. Without the title, the _name,_ he's nothing. He's nobody."

_He's me._

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock knew he'd said that aloud.

And a part of him, not blinded by the same giddy joy that Sherlock was overcome with, feared for the retribution.

*

The next night, nonviolent in a way that caused a knot to form in Mycroft's stomach, was eerily quiet.

The house was silent, the world holding its breath, for all appearances; outside the windows, life seems to be in stasis as the attention of every living being in Undershaw was drawn to the elder Holmes and the youngest.

_Dishonor and disgrace, that's what it is,_ the housemaids gossiped as they went about their work. _He's only gotten what he deserved. _

Praises were sung of Edmund, and new threads woven into the threads of the family's legacy.

Nobody would forget this, the brilliant mark of Kerran's failure. How the law had existed between the Lords, as long as their records went, the servants discovered: the irrevocable rule that when a father and son were both of age, they would share the title.

And this was among their highest laws: the elder would have full power over the younger.

Kerran's surname now existed on paper only. In reality, he had fallen from his lofty perch of power. Now, the true meaning of _Holmes_ no longer applied to him.

That night, the sound of the violin was light and fast, holding none of the sorrow it had previously. It spoke of a promise: _tomorrow will be brighter. A new day is dawning._

And Mycroft found what would come with the dawn terrifying.

*

_Faithful servant, yet master's bane…_

_-The Lord of the Rings_

Silence.

It came in so many forms; a quiet, easy calm shared with a companion, the icy indifference of solitude, the tense, vibrating form of time being caught in a snare and slowing.

It was excruciating.

_It's taken too long._

There was always some sort of sound when Sherlock made it back to the room below; the door closing, the violin playing, _something._

There had been no such thing.

_Dawn comes,_ Mycroft thought, _and with it, a new night._

At that exact moment, there was a soft tap on the door.

"Come in," Mycroft called quietly.

He hadn't locked it.

It moved inward, just slightly, then barely opening it enough to admit a wraith, Sherlock slipped in.

Alarm flashed in Mycroft's mind; involuntarily, his hands clenched slightly as Sherlock kept his eyes low, his head bowed.

"What happened?" he asked.

New silence: _pained._

"Nothing," Sherlock whispered, his voice rougher than usual.

This was most definitely not good.

Mycroft stood.

"I hate to repeat myself, but I will ask again: what happened?"

Blue-gray eyes briefly met those of a sharper steel briefly as they flicked up, then went back to the floor.

"He found me," Sherlock managed, collapsing into a chair.

He knew what to look for; honing in on subtle signals only he would have noticed, Mycroft laid a hand on Sherlock's forearm, suspecting the presence of a wound..

He didn't expect Sherlock to jump violently, then shudder as he regained control of himself.

When he pushed back the sleeve, it took a second for the bruising pattern to make sense.

_Finger marks._

"He said…" Sherlock closed his eyes as Mycroft tilted his head back, and thusly didn't see the flash of sorrow on his brother's face when he took in the livid bruises on Sherlock's throat. _"Tu opprobrium propter nomen tuum."_

You're a disgrace to your name.

"He envies you," Mycroft replied shortly. "You still carry the name, the title of Sharpthorn with full rights. He doesn't."

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"He broke my violin."

And that, to Mycroft, seemed to be the greatest crime of all.

*

Sherlock wasn't the only member of the family with an affinity for music.

The next morning- after a sleepless night, even though Sherlock had gone back down to his room after a while- Mycroft trailed his fingers over the keys of the piano, impulsively taking a seat.

It seemed only right, after all.

The melody sprang to mind, the notes breaking the (still, _stagnant,_ in fact) silence of the dawn.

_House of the Rising Sun, _Mycroft thought, with a flick of pleasure that he hadn't lost his touch. _A sad, yet hopeful piece._

*

The haunting sound of the piano echoing slightly through the halls- although this may have had something to do with the fact that the music-room was the one directly below him- Sherlock opened his eyes.

The box on his nightstand immediately caught his attention; he reached over, pulling it close enough so that he could inspect it properly.

He slid the case out, and upon opening it, brushed his fingers over the strings of the Stradivari before experimentally lifting the bow, testing the weight of it in his hand.

It fit perfectly.

He picked up the small piece of paper beside it.

_Merry Christmas._

_-Mycroft_


	45. The Parting of the Ways

The Parting of the Ways

45

_{thankyou, Squibler, for the insane giggles that somehow became a sad chapter while you blog our chatlog, and being the John to my Sherlock- we decided that right before you went to sleep. Then you told me to not let the fandom think we're in love. I'M NOT GAY!}_

I OFFICIALLY BLAME STEVEN MOFFAT FOR THE CONTENTS OF THIS CHAPTER, AND DAVID ARNOLD AND MICHAEL PRICE. AND… LET'S BLAME… …me.__

**

Stepping away from his laptop briefly to use the bathroom, John looked in the mirror.

The man who showed there was unfamiliar: he was gaunt, thin, his eyes sunken in and shadowed deeply. They were a darker blue than he remembered, and haunted.

Pain showed in them, as clear as any wound.

Before he was aware of the action, his arm had moved of its own accord, opening the cabinet; his hand closed around the box of spare razor blades, bringing them down from the shelf.

He had one in his hand, poised over his forearm, before his mind realized it.

_Wait. Wait just a minute._

He blinked.

_What the bloody hell am I doing?_

He knew that a fairly shallow cut to that part of his arm wouldn't cut any major arteries, wouldn't make him bleed out or die before his set time. It would just…

…hurt like a bloody bitch, he realized, turning on the tap belatedly to rinse off the cut he hadn't consciously decided to make. And it would bleed quite a bit.

But the physical pain was distracting, at least. It helped him focus.

It kept his eyes off the man in the mirror, the bleak and hopeless being that had once been brave.

**

{Ugh. My brain is mush. We may end up doing a 221b…}

{You know, I had this little epiphany tonight. Being able to get inside the minds of drug addicts and self-harmers and murderers and psychopaths doesn't make me a bad person. It doesn't mean there's something wrong with me. It means I'm a fucking brilliant author. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes, for giving me a self-esteem boost over a matter that's been bugging me for weeks if not months.}

_February 24, 1990_

_I haven't forgotten._

I remember you. If I've broken every other promise, I've kept this one: I remember you. I remember the way you smelled, the sound of your voice. I remember the way you were my equal, my mirror, the one who understood me.

I'm still sorry. It doesn't mean anything, not when you're dead, but I am.

There's not much to tell, to be honest. Radovan Mäsiar still walks free. He has an accomplice, Sebastian Moran- I beat him, at least. And took his knife. They kidnapped Molly, so I gave him what he deserved. Didn't kill him, though. Maybe I should have.

Mycroft's already working his way up the ladder that is the British Government. "A minor position," he tells me. Right.

It's been a year already, and I still miss you. I hope you're happy, wherever you are.

Yours, now and always,

Sherlock Holmes.

_**_

Slowly, but quite surely, that "minor position" began to show more and more in Mycroft's personality.

He became more dominant, and less of an equal. It hit Sherlock suddenly one day that he no longer regarded his brother as his close friend and companion, but as a superior and distant lord.

_Lord Acerspina._

Slowly, but surely, the job consumed the Mycroft Holmes who had been a safe place for his brother to flee. In his skin, lived a man who would one day be called the Iceman.

_{Oh, God, this chapter is breaking my heart.}_

And Sherlock, alone, found himself at a parting of the ways.

He chose his own path.

_Et tu, Brother?_

*

"It's a small matter-"

"Once, you told me something was a small matter. It ended up with a young girl dying, if your memory fails you, Mycroft."

Mycroft drew in a breath. "I only want-"

"Everyone _wants_ things. Few get them."

"I need you to gather information on a few select persons, and tell them quite clearly that I am not the person they want to mess with."

Sherlock opened an eye. "Why me?"

"Because you're He Who Walks Alone," Mycroft snapped, and Sherlock closed his eyes again. "The Shadow in the Dark."

The younger brother sighed.

"Why would I?" he wondered quietly.

"What else better do you have to do?" Mycroft demanded.

For some reason, those words struck close to his heart.

Not as deeply as they once would have.

As Mycroft had changed, Sherlock had stepped naturally into that cold persona that it seemed he had been destined to become.

"I'll do it," he replied.

**

Sad chapter. And I'm not even sure _why._

Suggest, prompt, and etcetera… the little coffeecan is always open.

So is the reviewbox.

It's right _there. _

V


	46. Ghosts of Angels

_{I have such a powerful urge to make this a joyful chapter. Powerful. Urge._

Oh! LESTRADE, THANK OBAMA FOR YOUR ROMANCE}

Ghosts of Angels

46

_"Sir? There's been a break-in."_

"Not our division."

_That,_ right there, was where it had started.

The beginning of Moriarty, of the Final Game; the end of Sherlock Holmes.

His eyes closed, Detective Inspector- he'd held on to his title thanks to a _small_ intervention by a certain someone with a _minor_ position in the British Government- Lestrade had his share of guilt.

_If I'd just stopped them, if I'd just believed in him…_

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

It was an incredibly small minority, but persistent: graffiti kept showing up on official buildings- the Incident of October 24 had grown to be a legend in Scotland Yard, where Whitehall itself had been ravaged overnight and _covered_ in bright yellow paint.

He sighed fondly at the memory, then stood, thinking absently to get some coffee from the canteen.

He ignored Donovan and Anderson on his way out, as per his habit, nowadays.

The day after… the fall, Donovan had looked into her superior's eyes, and whatever had been there had died.

The fury in Lestrade's was plenty sufficient to tell her that _no, what you did was not okay, no, we won't be the same way after this-_

He hadn't been as childish as to take away her job, but he made sure she knew he was at the wrong end of his wrath.

And in the midst of his vengeful musings, he slammed straight into one Molly Hooper.

_{Golly is just such a cute ship name. OMFG OBAMA *runs in circle screaming* LESTRADE THANKS YOU, MAN}_

"I'm so sorry-" she stammered, jumping back.

"It's fine," he insisted, bending down to pick up the files she'd dropped. "Completely fine. I was the one who ran into you."

_{Mystrade is possessive, in an attractive way. Why didn't they name it Lecroft? Lecroft is sophisticated. Yes, this is an analysis of the Lestrade shippers via in-chapter A/N}_

When he rose, there was a rather pretty blush on her cheeks.

"Coffee?" she asked hopefully.

He smiled at her.

"Why not?"

Maybe, Greg thought, he could start to step out of the shadow of a ghost.

**

_{Sherlock, why must my only method of linking you to Greg be sad? WHY MUST YOU BE SO SAD?}_

{*sulks over how I painted myself into a corner*}

{And this part of the chapter doesn't even get a resolution for like… a hundred chapters… [hides]}

If it looked big on the outside, on the inside, Undershaw was massive.

Attics, corridors, catacombs; it was an intricate maze when you entered the older parts of the mansion, the parts that were quiet and cool even on hot summer days, where the ghosts were still strong, murmuring their secrets to the shadows.

It was one of these wings that Sherlock found himself wandering one day, having nothing else better to do; the dust glittering in the sunlight made the scene eerie, his footsteps silent against the carpet, as if this was a place time had forgotten.

He wasn't particularly worried about losing himself- he was _Sherlock Holmes,_ for Christ's sake- so he turned as the whim struck him, exploring rooms and their contents as he pleased.

It was when he was walking down a long hallway and the door that looked as if it had been only just opened caught his eyes that it happened.

The very instant he crossed the threshold, he had a sudden, hard, _violent_ flashback.

_Fire glowing in the grate- air warm, windows dark, nighttime- voices-_

He staggered back against the wall, pressing his hands against it, his eyes wide.

Just for an instant, he could have _sworn_ that he saw someone at the very edge of his vision, incredibly close; when he reached, there was only air.

A sudden patch of cooler air delicately brushed past his face, and it felt like a hand touching his cheek.

Suddenly unnerved, Sherlock straightened, casting an intense look first down the hall, then into the room.

He didn't dare go back into it, but it looked perfectly ordinary, like any other of the dozens of rooms inside Undershaw.

The hair on his forearms stood on end, and he thought it best to leave… whatever _this_ was.

**

Place has a haunting up in its stuff, man. Now: _who was that? _*laugh*

Guys and gals, please proceed to worship Lo613 for reminding me via email notif about a review that I had to type up a chapter by 2am and it was 12:05 and I hadn't put in a single word. Thankyou OBAMA for giving Lestrade romance!

I learned of the re-election via tumblr. I regret nothing.

And I seem to have proposed to a fellow Sherlockian in Massachusetts. Sort of. I was invited to move there and marry her, I think.

Well, I did reblog her "the person I reblogged this from is beautiful" post with a Reichenbach pun.

*sexy Benedicty wink/tongue-click*


	47. The Poem

My collapsible headphones folded in on themselves slightly and fell down my head a little.

I caught them and my brain was triggered into creating this chapter.

If that's what it takes, I suppose. _{105 minutes to write a chapter! LET'S DO THIS THING}_

The Poem

47

In the end, what it took was that he ran out of milk.

That was what it took to lure John out of his intense blogging frenzy of typing and draft-saving; he ran out of milk for his tea.

With an angry snarl, he made his way to Tesco's.

And halfway there, painted with care onto a wall (not sprayed), was the message.

_Here dwell together still two men of note_

_Who never lived and so can never die:_

_How very near they seem, yet how remote_

_That age before the world went all awry._

_But still the game's afoot for those with ears_

_Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:_

_England is England yet, for all our fears–_

_Only those things the heart believes are true._

_A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane_

_As night descends upon this fabled street:_

_A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,_

_The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet._

_Here, though the world explodes, these two survive,_

_And it is always eighteen ninety-five._

_-"221b", by Vincent Starlett_

_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes._

For the long time, for a century, John only stared.

_Eighteen ninety-five._ The number that no matter what he did, the view-counter for his blog was stuck at.

_Only the things the heart believes are true._

As he stepped forward, touching the wall with his fingertips, his foot brushed something and caught his eye.

So, he mused, bending down, the artist had only just finished the work and had been interrupted by John coming upon him…

He picked up the brush, dipped it into the can of bright yellow paint- a nod to the case with the Chinese smugglers, he noted- and made his own mark.

_-JW_

**

_{I didn't realize how powerful the "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" line would be until I re-read the poem and saw the line "Only the things the heart believes are true." Holy shit. Holy, fucking, shit, that's _power,_ right there.}_

_{Sherlock, Sherlock, how are you going to match this… Anybody? Anybody got some potential awesome to match the epic of John? Mycroft? Lestrade? Molly? Stamford? ANYONE? *runs through a mental list of recurring characters* MRS. HUDSON. YES.}_

While most of the world was focused on the existence of the flat 221B, there existed the one that, to some people, was equally important.

221B wouldn't have been quite the same without 221A.

It was small, feminine and motherly, showing the personality of its occupant like a mirror. When you looked around, with the beads in the kitchen doorway instead of a door or curtain, and small little touches that spoke of kindness, it created a distinct impression.

Mrs. Hudson fit that impression precisely.

During the _(incredibly)_ memorable tenure of Sherlock Holmes, she had been happier than she'd been in… as long as she could remember, actually.

It was different, she had to say, without bullets being shot into her walls, chemicals exploding, and violin- occasionally spectacular, occasionally like a dying cat- at ungodly hours of the night.

She'd be damned if she wouldn't take it all again if it meant having her boys back.

Because they were unquestionably hers.

Some years previously, she'd found him- or more accurately, he her. She'd been an abused wife hiding in a locked room; he had been a homeless boy wandering the streets.

Fate had spoken, their paths had met, and her life had changed when she'd given him some food because he looked to be starving to death.

He'd talked with her so eagerly, so starved for human company he'd been. His eyes had been glowing with an unearthly fervor as his skeletal hands moved, clarifying his points.

He was Sherlock Holmes, he'd explained, after she'd realized she didn't know his name a quarter of the way through the meal. Her husband had gone out for the night. It wasn't often somebody called him that, though. He was the power behind the silent voices, the ghost of the streets; He Who Walks Alone.

To Mrs. Hudson, she was very happy to mentally add _Guardian Angel of London_ to that list.

And then she'd recognized some little tidbit of information he'd rapidly tossed out, and she'd lifted a hand, stopped him.

_"You're _him_," _she'd breathed. _"The One They Fear."_

He'd lowered his hands slowly.

_"Yes,"_ Sherlock had verified. _"Yes, I am."_

The one that every criminal in London feared, that every homeless vagrant held in awe. The One, He, the one who saw everything, knew every street and what happened on them, could tell you your life's story from a single look.

She'd stood.

Spread her arms.

_"Prove it."_

He'd stood.

Stood opposite her.

Looked her over.

And she knew he saw.

And as she closed her eyes, he spoke.

_"You've been married for a while,"_ he began slowly, circling her. _"But… not happily. He abuses you. You hide it, and you walk through the motions because he tells you to, for his honor. You defend him, and lie for him, because part of you still believes that just maybe, one day, he'll stop. He's apologize, and everything will be better."_

He'd stopped when he was in front of her again.

_"It won't,"_ he said firmly. _"He will be the end of you. Leave him, and never look back."_

Her breath had caught in her throat. Her voice shook.

_"He'll find me."_

There had been a soft weight on her shoulders. His hands, she found, when her eyes opened.

_"Then we'll just have to end him,"_ he whispered.

And now, in the present, she opened her eyes again.

The man, her husband, had beaten her so badly that she was incapable of having children.

And for a while, even despite that, Mrs. Hudson thought, touching her fingers to a picture's frame, she'd had them anyway.

It was a small portrait, a photograph snapped in an instant. Sherlock and John, side by side, laughing as if there wasn't a care in the world.

221B was empty, after six months of dormancy. The bullet-holes in the wall had yet to be patched. Everything remained the same.

Because in her heart, Mrs. Hudson would eternally hope for her boys to come back.

_**_


	48. Memory

_{I wanted to name this chapter "And It Spread Like Wildfire", but then I realized that no, I wanted to save it for a later one, and it didn't quite fit. Then it was "The Power of Written Words", but then I decided to save that one, too. So, what to call this, chapter forty-eight, only two left before the Fifty Mark, where everything starts to go to crap…}_

Memory

48

Warily, after John left, the graffiti-artist slowly walked out of his hiding place, watching as the other man left, then examined his work.

Still twitchy, he looked over his shoulder again.

Surely that hadn't been _the_ John Watson…

Hesitantly, he held his fingers over the painted letters, then recognizing the signs that it had yet to dry, pulled his hand back.

_Only the things the heart believes are true._

_{Right there, people: motto of the "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes movement}_

He stepped back, taking out his phone, and snapped a picture.

Maybe trying to fight the media was like holding a spark to an inferno, he figured, but didn't it take a spark to create a flame?

**

And in the meantime, forever waiting in the wings and eternally loyal, a yellow dog, utterly ordinary to all appearances, followed John Watson home.

She did not make her presence known.

**

In the quiet perpetual dusk of a London December day, the most powerful man in the world stood before a black headstone.

"Why am I here?" he wondered, snow falling softly. "I always say that caring is not an advantage. You punched me for it, once. I remember it quite clearly.

"You know that I remember everything," the man murmured, his breath showing in the cold air. "I remember the way we once were, when we were brothers as brothers should be. I remember when you were young, when we trusted each other. I remember how I asked you for help on a supposedly _minor matter_ once, and it nearly got all of us killed. I remember her, for you. Memory is a strange thing, Sherlock. You held so many things in your mind that can't be replaced. But… I'll try to make sure that some things aren't forgotten. Valor. Cowardice. Evil. Honor."

He blinked.

"I remember how when you came off the streets, and the reports came in, you were known more by title than by name," he murmured. "He Who Walks Alone, the Shadow in the Dark, Angel of Death, the One They Feared."

There was no reply.

"They spoke of you as having a quick temper, of having the eyes on an eagle and the brain of a god," the surviving brother said. "They spoke of a man who had lived on the streets as long as anyone could remember, who knew every corner of London as well as the back of his hand. A man who would look death in the face and spit at his feet, because he had nothing to live for and nothing to lose."

His breath caught.

"And it seems that you were brought back to that, at the end," he whispered. "That, in my opinion…"

There were no words.

_"Vale,"_ Mycroft breathed, and turned away.

**

_{Vale: Latin, "Farewell"}_

The library was quiet.

Hence, why Sherlock enjoyed haunting it so much.

On the very threshold of his ninth birthday, Sherlock was sprawled comfortably in one of the chairs scattered about, his attention riveted to a book.

Promptly bored of it, he tossed it aside with a sigh.

He brought his hands together, pressing the tips of his fingers to his chin.

"If I were to die, at this very moment, and disappear," he asked quietly, "would anyone notice? Would anyone remember me?"

**

{That yellow dog has the patience of a saint. Patience. Of. A. Fucking. Saint.}

Oh, angsty Mycroft. Did I handle it well?

Damn it, I've painted myself into a corner. "Wait until chapter 50 for Druggie-Sherlock," I said. "Stretch out your plotlines so you'll have enough material to cover it," I said.

"Cram two years- actually, three, fuck it- into two chapters," I realized. "Well done, Self, well done. How the hell are we going to do it?"

Chapter forty-nine doesn't even have a _name._ Nor does Fifty.

And Fifty is the Marker, the big-fucking-deal chapter. Wait. Shit. I actually… *juggles math* Fuck, I have to fit _three years _into chapter forty-nine. And three more after that into fifty.

And then stretch fifty to 100 in the form of Druggie-Sherlock. Please. Suggest. I can do a shitload with fifty chapters. Look what I did with Lydia: I snuck her into this one, and she gets even more plot around… um… well, like a hundred chapters from now. It's a really long story.

Also: ThoroughlySherlocked will happily verify that I've been tossing around ideas for another fic, _On the Side of the Angels._ It's a re-write of the entire TV series, and post-Reichenbach, with a twist: it's a wingfic. Characters' personality types are reflected in their plumage, and it occasionally changes as they do. Examples: Sherlock, in the beginning, has wings comparable to a raven's. John uses a specially-designed cover to mask his native color and change it do a slate-grey akin to a merlin's.

Should I type some of it up and see what happens, or not?


	49. Like Leaves in the Wind

Like Leaves in the Wind

49

_{So, this is it, folks… the last chapter, before we get to the bad years, nearly… fifteen of them, in my estimate. Fifteen. Over the course of fifty chapters. Well, I stretched two of them into fifty, didn't I? Should be a piece of cake.}_

{Except it sounds so… big, you know. Fifty chapters. Five-zero. Bring in the suggestions, guys and she-things. The Dark Side of the Moon wouldn't have made it this far or be anywhere near the same without you guys. Guess what we achieved today. Twelve. Thousand. Views. [11/9/12]}

_February 24, 1991_

Another year.

They began the ground phase of the Gulf War yesterday. Troops stormed Iraq from Saudi Arabia. Thought you might like to know.

Mycroft is still as cold and distant as ever, if that matters. It stopped feeling like it did a few months back. He doesn't care, I'm no longer registering on the vast planes of his mind: I get it, I'm not worth his attention, case closed.

I still have Sebastian Moran's knife. It's a highly functional war trophy. Holds an edge- I've only tended it once and I performed a vivisection on a rat a week ago. It was most interesting.

Two years, Lydia. This is the second letter I've written to you. It feels like both an eternity and an instant at the same time.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

**

_{Sherlock and Lydia's Theme, one of a few I've found that fit: "Hallelujah", Leonard Cohen}_

_{okay, it really fits them, practically to the letter}_

"Would you mind-"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, "I would."

Mycroft glared. "Let me rephrase: could you-"

"No."

Mycroft drew his next breath through his teeth. "Don't make me order you."

Sherlock set aside his book and stood in a quick motion. He'd grown considerably, and now Mycroft couldn't tower over him in quite the say way as before.

"I'd like to see you try," he said in a low voice.

Mycroft's back straightened in an attempt to give himself more power.

"Tell me, what do I owe you?" Sherlock asked softly, his voice vibrating with power. "You _abandoned_ me, Mycroft, if you've forgotten."

He pulled back his right sleeve, showing his brother the lividly red burn that ran from his elbow to his wrist.

"But you're above it, aren't you," Sherlock snarled. "Oh, no, you've got your fancy fucking position in the government, hundreds of people at your fingers- what else is new, Mycroft, tell me _that!"_ He turned away sharply. "You send me on all of these damn missions for you, gather evidence here, threaten people there, do this, Sherlock, do that, Sherlock, run-everywhere-because-I-say-so, Sherlock, because you're younger than me and I can order you as I please! I'm fucking _sick_ of it, doing all of your goddamned work for you without anything to show for it except scars! Do it yourself, for once, you-"

His eyes lit with fury, his mind consumed by it, Mycroft lunged.

Sherlock was quicker, more experienced in combat: he ducked under his brother's hands, delivered a well-placed jab that had the elder cursing under his breath; from there, it was a frenzy until they ended up on the floor, their hands on each other's' throats.

"I believe they call this an _impasse,"_ Sherlock managed.

With a look of disgust, Mycroft was the first to let go, standing and collecting himself before exiting the room.

He didn't look back, Sherlock noted, as the door slammed.

**

_February 24, 1992_

Had a fight with Mycroft. A physical one, not our regular sibling rivalry.

I don't think I know him anymore, Lydia.

_**_

Anxious, the moment she saw Mycroft, Molly stepped forward.

"I was going to ask you-"

And then she saw him. Bruised, rattled, furious.

"What happened?" she demanded as she fell into step behind him, as per her norm.

"I don't particularly want to talk about it," Mycroft spat, every word dripping with contempt.

"But-"

"Correction," Mycroft interrupted harshly, "I _won't _speak of it."

When the door of his dormitory slammed shut in her face, Molly stood for a second, shocked.

When Sherlock had been acting strangely, she'd gone to Mycroft. So, logic said that when _he-_the one who was always completely, utterly collected- was _seriously_ out of his pattern of normal behavior…

…go to Sherlock.

**

The door was never locked, so she just walked in.

"What-"

"You never call, you never write," Sherlock said smoothly, a bruise beginning to show on his left cheekbone as he tuned his violin. "I'd almost thought you'd forgotten me, Molly."

She swallowed. Surely- "What happened?"

"So, you saw Mycroft, then," and the way he said his brother's name was dangerously normal. "Well, there's quite the story behind it, you know."

The lump in her throat wouldn't be pushed back. "You… the two of you, of all people…"

"Mycroft and I had a fight, yes, of the physical sort." He lifted the Stradivarius to his shoulder, and tested the sound; deeming it satisfactory, he began a new song that Molly hadn't heard before.

This was the only mourning he'd allow himself, Sherlock thought. One chance, just one, to lament the loss of a friend, his brother, the person who by all rights should have been at his side.

One last moment to regret losing all the others, the quiet hours passed in companionship.

The loss of the promise, the breaking of it, innocence's end: _you are not alone,_ the highest oath, shattered.

**

I was going to end it with Lydia's second letter, but it seemed a bit too short. So, Molly got a little shot to make her point.

Two years inside of one small chapter, and the Sherlock-Mycroft fight I was hoping for. I was going to end Fifty with it- actually, I can still end Fifty with The Quote. Oh, yes, The Quote.

_On the Side of the Angels to be posted soon… say, eleven hours from now, or when I get out of bed, whichever comes first._


	50. Innocence's End

_Innocence's End_

50

_{*sigh* Warning, folks. This will be a sad chapter. A very, very sad chapter. We left Sherlock in February of '92. Now we travel through everything between that and the whole mess that happened at age 14, as seen in chapter one.}_

{I'd like to take the opportunity to again thank the twelve thousand, three hundred and fifty-nine viewers. Also, Lo613 and ITell, for being the first to review On the Side of the Angels- it's posted now.}

{Well, here we go, then… Wait, _shit.__ February. '92. February of fucking '92. SHIT. That's like, four months before Sherlock first becomes addicted to morphine.}_

"_We did not change as we grew older; we just became more clearly ourselves."_

_-Lynn Hall_

Boredom was all-consuming.

His fingers twitching, Sherlock stared blankly at the wall.

When a timer on the desk in his dormitory pinged, he looked towards it sharply, then shot out of his chair, pressing his eyes to the microscope.

_Bacteria colonizing successfully. Population established, substantial and increasing. Escherichia coli successfully produced outside of a host._

And how, a part of his brain wondered, _would they react to blood?_

Without the slightest regard for the factor of self-harm, he pricked his finger with a needle- it hurt rather obscenely for such a small wound- and let a drop of blood fall onto the slide.

It was very interesting when the bacteria began to attack the blood cells.

For a short moment.

Absently, he dragged the needle down the back of his hand, mind piqued by the simple sting of a sharp piece of metal pulling on his skin.

Pain was an intriguing thing, Sherlock decided, turning his full attention to it. Perhaps it would make a more interesting experiment.

**

The razor blade held gently in his hand, almost like a long-lost lover, John carefully traced it across a predetermined stretch on his forearm.

The mark joined another just like it, the pair of them lining the skin quite neatly.

He flexed his hand, watching as the blood dripped into the sink.

Then he transferred the blade to that hand, matched the cut with another on the opposite arm.

He'd never know what drove him to look into the mirror, but when he did, he jumped back violently.

It had been a brief flash; a hallucination, John immediately told himself. Because there was no way, no bloody _possible_ way in any hell…

…that the reflection had been that of Sherlock Holmes.

**

February gradually slaked into March; Mycroft remained coldly furious and aloof, while Sherlock finally found something that distracted his mind from the utter _nothing_ of life.

Pain was exquisite.

He could lay there for hours, dissecting and analyzing the sensations a cut to his arm would deliver; cold steel against warm flesh, skin giving, blood spilling.

It was endlessly fascinating.

**

March quietly pried winter's fingers off the world, letting warmth sneak back in. In April, the grass starting growing again, life beginning to thrum once more.

Oddly uneasy, Sherlock took to checking his flanks frequently.

Instinct was a unique variable, both unpredictable and the base rule at the same time: changing from person to person, crafted from their experiences, and yet underscored by deeper notes, both simple and complex: _breathe. There's someone behind you, by the way._

Ordinary people stumbled about their lives, their minds practically obliterated by the mundane. Some of them, though, were fitting material for brief studies: a hunter, channeling subconscious aggression; a politician, dominance.

And maybe it was instinct, Sherlock figured, that kept telling him that something major would happen soon.

**

When it did, it felt like a tripwire being triggered. Brief relief from tension: then, incredible consequences.

It had been a completely normal, utterly boring day.

_June,_ Sherlock thought to himself with contempt. _It can never decide whether it wants to be as hot as a piece of molten iron or fairly reasonable._

He'd opened his eyes, irritated when he spotted the gang of five making their way across the tarmac.

And, at the same time, the tripwire snapped.

"About damn time," Sherlock said under his breath, standing.

A few of the dullest from Mycroft's group, he recognized with a small jolt of surprise. _That_ was an interesting development.

"Lose your way again, Quaritch?" he called loftily.

Their leader- a typically broad-shouldered brute of a man- snarled. "Not as badly as you, Sherly."

Sherlock's nostrils flared. He nursed a healthy hatred for the nickname. "As thick as usual I see," he replied as his enemy came closer. He was acutely aware of the weight of Sebastian Moran's knife against his hip, but against this, the use of it would bring more trouble than good.

_Five to one,_ Sherlock thought dismally, as they spread out to circle him. _Not good. Not in the slightest._

Adrenaline trickled into his veins; he fisted his hands several times as he silently challenged his opponents, meeting their eyes in defiance.

"How did you skin your hands this time?" Sherlock asked. "Did you punch a wall?"

And as Quaritch shifted, angling for a better attack, he registered the figure in the background, recognizing it instantly.

_Mycroft?_

It was a nasty fight.

It quickly became bloody, when the first knife was drawn and he responded in kind; he barely flinched when the bone in his left forearm ended up broken, his retaliation being knocking out the person who'd done so.

_This,_ thought Sherlock, _is what they think of me as: He Who Walks Alone, the ruthless fighter, willing to rip out your throat with his bare hands._

And he knew, even with his skill, he was outmatched.

He managed to meet Mycroft's eyes, to beg silently, to ask for forgiveness.

_Help,_ his frosted-pine-needle-green eyes pleaded. _I know I've done things that are wrong, but forgive me, just this once, if there's anything human left in you, help-_

He ducked under a fist, shoved his elbow into the offender's ribs- a motion perfected by violin-playing, just to add in a spat of irony- and cut deep into another's shoulder.

This was beyond the rules of any schoolyard fight: this was tooth and nail, cloak and dagger, all for nothing, life or death.

And he was losing.

And finally driven to the last extreme, on the verge of losing his ground, he threw aside all considerations of pride.

"Mycroft!" he shouted, parrying a blade. "If there's _anything_ of the brother I used to know in you- anything at all, _please,_ help!"

Help didn't come.

When pain snapped into existence at the back of his skull, he thought that maybe, it was for the best.

Unconsciousness was better than facing the raw wound of betrayal.

**

Waking up was frightening.

It was slow, and painful. It began as a hazy awareness of darkness, rather than mindless drifting. Sentience came back, drop by drop, and the first emotion he felt was hate for it.

He didn't want to be human, didn't even want to be _alive,_ much less here and now, defeated and broken, thrown down harshly from the lofty peak of exile he'd established for himself.

A lifetime ago, he'd said something much of the same: _Alone is what I have, Mycroft. Alone protects me._

And it all flooded back, with the use of Mycroft's name.

The pain slammed hard, brutally into his chest, wrenching him out of the comfortable half-world and into full awareness. He remembered.

And the memory cut deep, through carefully-built defense and shell, and deep into his soul.

His eyes opened sharply, taking in the environment- _white, sterile, disgusting- Hopital-_ as an inhuman sound escaped through his teeth.

Something in his chest tightened on itself, seizing painfully.

And everything went black again.

**

The next time was slower, but worse, because he knew what was coming. This time, when he woke up, he remembered it all fully.

But blessedly, the physical pain was nowhere near what it had been. It seemed to be hidden behind a veil, and that was insanely relieving.

He managed to look over at the slow _drip-drip_ sound of the I.V., and recognized the drug as morphine.

Painkillers, Sherlock decided, letting go of consciousness, were a wonderful thing.

**

Eventually, the time came for him to be weaned off of the drug.

And he wasn't anywhere near ready.

_Broken ribs,_ they'd said. _Severe internal haemorrhage,_ they'd said. _High-risk concussion, numerous broken bones._

He honestly couldn't care less what had happened to his body- it had certainly seen its share of abuse and carried its scar, perpetually remarked upon by the nurses- but the wound in his mind had all of his attention.

When the morphine supply was cut off, and the pain of it showed, it took him half of a second to decide to find more as soon as they weren't looking.

He lasted seven hours until the lights went out, when the skeletal night shift took over and almost no attention was given to the recovery ward. It was child's play to sneak out of the room, down to the drug storage, hack into the machine, and steal a syringe of morphine.

Having watched them do it on numerous occasions, he knew how to make the vein show, and how to carefully thread the needle into it, pressing the plunger delicately.

When the drug took effect, his eyes nearly rolled back in his skull.

**

They had to have known that he'd done it, Sherlock thought as the next day, he was sent home. But, apparently, nobody cared.

When he went home, the customary pattern resumed; he'd been pulled out of school, apparently [expelled, to be honest], and that left more time to haunt the halls, and seek solitude.

He very intentionally withdrew from all human contact, living off of the morphine he smuggled in from dealers willing to talk down in the local village. People were always ready to talk, if you gave them enough money.

**

_February 24, 1993_

_Mycroft is a backstabbing traitor. I didn't really think it of him. Thought you might like to know._

_February 24, 1994_

Remember when I told you about that tripwire-about-to-snap feeling? You know how it is. Well, I'm intimately acquainted with it now. I get it all the time.

They sent me back to school, by the way. Tedious.

_**_

It wasn't until July, the next summer vacation (no sight or sound of Mycroft since The Incident, and very good riddance, in Sherlock's opinion) that the tripwire snapped again.

This time, it was his father.

They were nearly the same height now, Sherlock fully capable of looking him in the eye, and nothing at all like the submissive, easily abused boy he'd once been. Now, he could fight back.

And he did.

It had been a fairly standard fight: the usual insults, the customary scramble, the preamble, so familiar it was routine.

And then, something inside of him just snapped. Maybe it was the methamphetamine he'd recently branched out into, or something else, but he just wouldn't fucking _take_ it anymore!

_{Methamphetamine may or may not be a stimulant. I don't really have time to check, as I have a selfimposed 2am deadline- midnight time}_

And in a move so ancient is was like déjà vu, it was _he_ who had his hand on his father's throat, _Sherlock_ holding the knife, _Sherlock_ with the power of life or death.

"I'm done with this," he said in a low voice. "I'm _done._ Touch me again, and I _will_ kill you."

Disgusted, he stepped back, turned away, and disappeared.

**

A year and a half later, when he got the phone call, some part of his stomach dropped to the floor, while his heart soared.

_I have to go,_ some part of his brain registered. _If Father's dying, then I have to go._

_Why? _Part of his mind asked. _To mourn? Please._

Perchance to fulfill what might be seen as my duty. Perhaps to make sure that he really is dying.

**

And as soon as he stepped into the room, his instincts went on alert.

_Poison,_ his brain screamed while he took in the signs. Then changed the original diagnosis. _Sepsis. Too late to do anything._

He carefully blocked out any emotion as he stepped forward.

The words were weighed carefully on all sides, the act played for the sake of playing it.

When the heartbeat stopped, Sherlock might have felt grief.

**

_{A more complete version of these events can be found in chapter one}_

His mother was quick to follow.

Thinner that he'd once been, and his eyes haunted by what he'd seen there, in the ancient halls of Undershaw, Sherlock was struck by the sudden realization that there was nowhere for him to go.

_The streets of London always have room for another,_ a part of his mind said.

So.

London it was.

He stole several items, specifically to spite Mycroft.

And the man himself made an appearance.

**

"Noticed you couldn't bother yourself to make an appearance," Sherlock said coldly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Couldn't rip yourself away from Whitehall, no doubt."

Mycroft glared. "If you would-"

"Would _what?"_ Sherlock demanded. "Turn my back on my family the way you have? _Caring is not an advantage,_ you told me. And it turns out, Mycroft, that's the only damn thing you've ever been right about."

With nothing to his name but his Stradivarius and the clothes on his back, Sherlock turned away, stepping out the door.

"You heartless machine," Mycroft hissed quietly.

Despite everything, Sherlock smirked.

"You have no idea, _brother mine,"_ he muttered, getting into the cab.

"London, if you will. South London."

**

This chapter is rushed and late and past the 2am mark which put it on a 11/11/12 date instead of a 11/10/12 one. _I'm a horrible person._

Yes, no, go and die quietly in a corner?


	51. On the Streets of London

On the Streets of London

51

"So, where're you from, then?"

Sherlock flexed his hands, warming his fingers over the fire. The night held a slight nip. "Hertfordshire. Just outside of Sawbridgeworth."

The other's eyebrows furrowed. "That'd be…"

"East Hertfordshire," Sherlock volunteered, warming the backs of his fingers. "Northeast of Broxbourne."

"Ah," the other said, comprehension dawning.

He'd managed to earn a place in a small group of six, if for nothing more than the fact that he had next to nothing to help ease him into street life, while they knew everything.

"What's your name?" another asked.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Another blinked.

"I think I've heard of you," he muttered.

"So maybe you have," Sherlock snapped.

The third looked up.

"He Who Walks Alone," he breathed, his eyes fervent. "I _have_ heard of you. My brother went to Kimbolton. He told me stories of you."

Sherlock went still.

"How you fought like a rabid wolf, with the cunning of a weasel and the eyes of an eagle," he murmured, awe-struck as he warmed his hands over the fire. "And how you can tell a person's life story from a single look."

Intentionally invasively, Sherlock looked him over. "Quite."

"How old are you?" another wondered, looking at him askance.

Sherlock met his gaze unflinchingly. "Fourteen."

The first's eyes widened.

_"Fourteen?"_ he spat. "Fourteen years old, out of Kimbolton, raised in Hertfordshire, of all fucking godforsaken places, and you come to London, the epicenter of the dark and vile? What the hell were you thinking?"

For the first time in his life, he could actually let the danger in his eyes showed, Sherlock thought. He could let the full power of violence that coiled like a snake inside his soul bare its teeth; because on the streets of London, it was a tooth and nail fight for survival.

And He Who Walks Alone would not allow himself to be considered submissive for a single instant.

He snarled quietly, low in his throat, and his challenger pulled back slightly.

"I came to London because I chose to, and nobody had the power to stop me anymore, or cared enough to try," he hissed. "I came to London to make my name, to mark the world and have it remember me. I came to look into the devil's face and spit in his eye, for I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death and seen the other side."

As one, the six semi-strangers leaned away briefly, instinctively acknowledging a higher authority.

He chose the one two spots from his right.

"You," he said, nodding towards him- _fairly young, seventeen, frequently runs away from home just to get drugs before going back-_ "Speedball? Cocaine and morphine?"

The boy's eyes widened. "I don't know-"

"Don't," Sherlock warned.

The boy swallowed. "Speedball," he verified. "Heroin gives me these weird-ass hallucinations, so I went for the morphine."

A tentative pause.

"You?"

Sherlock smiled humorlessly, pulling his left sleeve back to his elbow and showing the underside of his forearm in the firelight.

"Morphine, oxycodone, cocaine, heroin, meth, and anything else I can get my hands on."

Slight shell-shocked, the one opposite him finally managed to offer a good question. "How are you going to pay for it? Whatever money to managed to steal won't last forever."

Sherlock smirked, then pulled the shoulder-strap over his head, settling the case into his lap. Experienced hands opened it as an army man might have a firearms case; when he lifted the Stradivarius out, it was like a man tenderly undressing his lover.

He set the case aside, the bow fitting in his hand naturally, and pulled the bow across the strings.

The tune started slow, in a song that had been meant for a piano, but was easily adapted for a violin's purposes; it grew to longer notes, then lifted pace, the notes standing out individually. Then it paused, holding itself, then grew into a lower song, the part meant for the instrument it was being played on.

It spoke of quiet sorrow, of loss, of betrayal.

The hairs on the boy's arms raised; the one opposite him looked even more surprised as utter silence ensued, the city seeming to stop breathing just to hear the mournful sonata.

The last note was long and low, and there was an equally long period of quiet as life halted respectively, then picked up again.

"Why did you leave?" the one opposite queried.

_Because my brother is a backstabbing traitor and my parents died, and I didn't have the damn time to reconcile with my father the way I wanted to. Because life cheated me out of all the chances I should have had, and I hate it._

"My reasons are my own."

"What about your brother?"

Every fiber of his being went on alert; his lip curled slightly.

"Mycroft is no longer any concern of mine. Neither am I any of his. He made his choice. I made mine. We parted ways. He gets an office in Whitehall, I get a shanty's shelter. Both of us will make ourselves into what we will be."

**

Damn, Sherlock.

Many thanks to Lo613 for her…his/her/its help in writing this chapter. xD I'm so sorry I have to go to bed, guys! I want to continue this, but I'm comfortable ending it there. It's a good, solid chapter, with a good name.


	52. Corruptela

Corruptela

_{Latin, noun: means of ruining, corruption, spoiling, __**temptation**__, enticement, allurement}_

52

The silver chain, fine as a thread, dripped delicately from his fingers, glittering in the firelight.

The phoenix ring revolved its own accord, seeming to soar in a nonexistent breeze.

"What is that?" one of his fellows asked, curious.

In a quick movement, Sherlock pulled the chain into his hand, hiding it from view.

_The remnants of my heart._

"Nothing."

"Ah, come on," the other said, edging closer to him. The others had gone to sleep; it was only Sherlock and the one entrusted with guard duty that remained awake. "Something that shiny has to be more than nothing. It's been cleaned regularly, kept in good condition, and the work's nice enough that it'd fetch many a pretty penny. Are you going to sell it?"

Instinctively, his hand tightened on the necklace- _her_ necklace, her only gift to him.

"No," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"It has to be worth at least a hundred and fifty quid, mate-"

_"No,_ Valspar," Sherlock repeated, and he let that dangerous note creep into his voice again.

He slipped the chain over his head, tucking it under his collar, feeling the ring settle against his chest.

"It's mine."

_{I named a character after a brand of paint. *looks away*}_

**

_You would have been sixteen, by now._

You had hair like pale sunlight made solid, and eyes like a summer's sky. Your voice still had an accent. It carried undertones of strength and valor.

Strength and valor, Lydia. That is the complete epitome of who you were.

I'm not sure why I'm thinking about you right now. Maybe because when they asked how I'd pay for drugs, I felt your necklace in my pocket and part of me consider it just for a second? Because Valspar asked me what it was, and all I could find within reason to say was "it's mine?"

Because it's been seven years, and every twenty-fourth of February, I still write you a letter? It's not even February yet.

Because here, I have six people who listen to my words, one who knew my name before I came here, and I feel even more alone than before? Because my parents are dead now, and my brother is as good as, as far as I'm concerned?

Because I'm fourteen, and you would have been sixteen. Because I've lived seven years that I stole from you, and now I feel as if I was a shadow of myself.

Because the skin heals faster than the heart.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

"Who's Lydia?" Valspar wondered, leaning subtly to read the letter. Being a solid three feet away from Sherlock, he hadn't earned a second thought.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he lifted his head, realizing that Valspar had crept closer; mortified, he jabbed an elbow into his comrade's ribcage.

"Fuck off, Valspar."

"Hey!" He rubbed ruefully at the spot. "What the hell got into you? Is she your lover or something?"

When Sherlock's expression changed, faint pain entering his eyes, his hand dropped.

"Oh," Valspar said. "I'm… I'm sorry, mate. I didn't know. But you wrote to her sort of weird, like- in a past tense sort of way-"

And then it struck him.

"She's your _dead_ lover."

Sherlock tucked the letter inside his coat, then bowed his head, staring at his hands, weaving his fingers together.

"My murdered lover, to be precise," he whispered. "Killed on my account, as I stood by, not having the guts to do anything. She died in my arms."

It had been so long since he'd experienced a non-malicious touch that he jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Valspar murmured again. "How long ago was it?"

"Seven years. But wounds under the skin bleed longer than ones on it."

"Only too true," Valspar agreed. "So, the necklace… it was hers?"

"Yes."

Valspar swallowed.

At the sudden silence, Sherlock raised his head.

Valspar dug inside his coat, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one.

"You smoke?"

"Not until now." Sherlock took it. "I know the theory. You got a light?"

Valspar held it out; Sherlock leaned forward, taking in a pull through the filter to make sure that it caught properly.

He leaned back, calmly breathing out the smoke.

"You handled that rather well, for a first-timer," Valspar commented, lighting one of his own.

Sherlock took another drag, savoring the dark flavor. "I knew what to expect."

A companionable pause.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

More silence, of an easy sort.

Sherlock flicked the ash off of the end of his cigarette.

"Forty-five meters to the right," he said under his breath. "Male, slightly over average height. Trying to sneak up on us."

Valspar blinked. "What?" he breathed.

"There's somebody over there." He cupped a hand around the glowing end of the cigarette, removing any remaining discernible sign of his presence. "I'll ring around and flank him. You want to take point?"

Full of youth's arrogance, Valspar rolled his shoulders. "Ah, hell, why not."

Sherlock stood, and having scouted out the area previously, gaining a loose knowledge of it, he darted down an alleyway, going around the block in a path that would lead him to be behind the would-be intruder.

A sharp, human yelping sound just as he rounded the corner made his heart skip a beat.

He tossed the cigarette aside, drawing Moran's knife in an easy, practiced move as he broke into a sprint.

He could make out the figure of his enemy- taller than he'd thought- and Valspar, held closely to his chest, fingers wrapped around his throat-

He reached them in a second that took an hour to pass, and with a quick stab to the wrist, convinced the assailant to let go.

As Valspar staggered away, Sherlock pinned his enemy to the wall and plunged the blade into his throat.

**

…_Damn,_ Sherlock.

Well, it looks like he made his kill mark, too. That makes everyone even, doesn't it?


	53. Angel of Death

Angel of Death

53

_{I accidentally closed my Internet Explorer window with like thirty fanfictions in it and they can't be recovered. *curls into a ball and dies for the umpteenth time*}_

_{Guys, if you have enough time to read fifty-three chapters of my crap: go read On the Side of the Angels. I literally spent six hours today on that, possibly seven. The result was a three-thousand word transcript of the Pink scene from A Study in Pink.}_

{Lo613 imagines Valspar as a giant bucket of paint. Lo and behold, the blooper at the end of this chapter.}

_{There's an audio clip on Tumblr of Benedict Cumberbatch reading a book and pretended to be a black woman. Oh. My. God. Life is complete.}_

As Sherlock wrenched the knife out of the man's throat, stepping to the side to avoid the blood, Valspar stared in shock.

The man fell to the ground, clutching at his throat, choking on his own blood. Sherlock watched his enemy die emotionlessly, coldly unattached from feelings.

_I made my kill mark,_ he thought.

Valspar's breathing was audible.

Sherlock, blood dripping from his knife, turned in a sharp motion. "What?"

"You…" Valspar wet his lips. "You… you fucking _killed_ him, Sherlock."

Quite consciously, Sherlock wiped the blade of the knife on his trouser leg. "Quite obvious, Valspar."

"You fucking _murdered_ him!"

"I'm not sure if it qualifies as that. You were in danger. I resolved the matter as I saw best."

Valspar stared. "You just fucking killed a man, and all you have to fecking say is _I resolved the matter as I saw best?"_

"Yes." Sherlock looked down at the body, then back to Valspar. "All lives end. Some quicker than others."

_All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage._

"I wasn't going to stand by as he killed you!" Sherlock snapped. "I wasn't going to let him just fucking strangle you like a whelp while I watched! I've stood by as someone died, watched people be tortured, and I held someone in my arms as they breathed their last breath, and I swore to myself that I'd never do it again! God_damn_ it, Valspar!"

Valspar's eyes widened even further; he stepped back.

"I.." He swallowed. "Thanks," he breathed, the word fogging in the air.

Sherlock glared, then spat at the pavement by the corpse's side. "It's no problem." He wiped his hand on his jacket, then put the knife in that hand and cleaned the other.

Valspar winced visibly.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked smoothly.

"It's just…" he grimaced. "You're getting blood all over your clothes."

Sherlock looked down at himself. "And so I am. They were already bloody. It's hardly a new sensation for me."

Valspar blinked.

"I've scared you," Sherlock muttered, sheathing his knife- and realized that that was what it had taken for him to think of it as his, killing someone with it. A nameless someone, by the looks of it, with nothing to lose and no home to go to, and nobody to miss him.

_Like me._

When Valspar said something, he was so caught up in his thoughts that he was dead certain he'd heard wrong.

"Say that again."

"Angel of Death, I called you," Valspar breathed reverently, stepped forward. "The look in your eyes when you pried him off me… it was unearthly, a brilliant, fiery fury. I swear, I was terrified just to be within a mile of you. Scared the hell out of me. You didn't seem human, or anything like it. You were like an avenger of some divine power, an angel sent on some mission by a higher power. You were like a god, Sherlock Holmes, full of wrath. The Angel of Death," he repeated, and actually _bowed._ "The Guardian of London, I dare say. Oh, this should be most interesting."

Now it was Sherlock who was surprised. He blinked slowly. "Nobody's ever bowed to me before," he murmured.

"You saved my life," Valspar reminded him gratefully. "I'll never forget it. Say the word, and I'll be at your command."

Sherlock stepped forward uncertainly. "I'm not an angel. I'm as far from an angel as they come."

"I beg to disagree." Valspar stepped to the side, circling him. "He Who Walks Alone," he said softly, and Sherlock closed his eyes. "The Guardian of London, the Angel of Death. I am at your service."

**

_Chapter originally named "Valspar"; changed to "Angel of Death"_

CHAPTER 53, BLOOPER EDITION

"VALSPAR"

This is going to be _ridiculous_ xD

**

{We're calling Valspar "Paint Bucket", because Lo613 said to}

{If you want something like this, just request it xD}

"Oh. My. Fucking. God."

Sherlock turned, raising his eyebrows. "What?"

"You just fucking murdered him!"

"I did," Sherlock agreed easily.

"YOU MONSTER!" Paint Can ran away, overwhelmed by the amount of awesome, spilling small droplets of paint on the ground.

Sherlock looked after him unhappily. He'd been hoping to touch up the walls a bit.

**

…did I seriously just do that?

[actual chat transcript available upon request]


	54. The Steel Barrel in the Thames

The Steel Barrel in the Thames

54

"One more time," Valspar managed. "That should be enough, yeah?"

"In theory," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, and threw his shoulder against the barrel one last time.

It fell over the bridge, into the Thames, and promptly proceeded to sink without so much as bobbing.

Valspar rolled his shoulders; Sherlock shook himself, getting some of the rain out of his hair.

"How did you know there'd be an oil barrel handy?" Valspar wondered absently, rubbing at his shoulder. Both of them would be heavily bruised come morning. "I mean, really, it was dead convenient, the body fit perfectly inside of it. But how did you know?"

"Oil traces along the streets," Sherlock panted, ruefully massaging his own shoulder. "Meant a car repair shop, of course. Hence, child's play to steal a used barrel."

They looked at each other.

And burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Valspar braced himself on his knees. "We just dumped a body into the Thames," he managed. "We just dumped a body into the motherfucking _Thames._ Oh, isn't that cliché?"

Sherlock grinned. "As cliché as they come. People are drawn to the hobby of dumping bodies in the river, apparently. Something about it must be incredibly appealing."

Valspar laughed again.

"Look at us, Sherlock," he gasped. "Laughing like idiots. Oh, what would they say, if they could see us now…"

Sherlock snickered. "People always have an urge to say something."

Valspar grinned back at him. "Only too true." He straightened, pulling the pack of cigarettes out from under his jacket. "Fag?"

"Gasping," Sherlock answered, reaching for it and leaning in to light it.

Valspar's eyes instantly caught the motion when Sherlock scratched at his left wrist.

"Coke bugs?"

"Yeah."

"Here." Valspar drew a syringe out from under his jacket. "I buy it by the syringe when the dealer doesn't have anything else. Needle's clean and everything, never used."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed in relief. "You got a tourniquet?"

Valspar handed him a strip of rubber hose. Experienced, Sherlock tied it around his preferred spot just below his elbow, tightening it with his teeth. His fisted his hand until the vein showed, then threaded the needle into the point.

When the drug entered his system, his eyes rolled back in his skull briefly. A deep sigh escaped his lips.

"Do you mean to tell me," Valspar realized, "that you killed a man, connived a plan to dump his body, and successfully pulled it off _all while jonesing for a hit?"_

"Yeah," Sherlock managed, untying the rubber and standing there slightly numbly, his eyes closed. "You have a good supplier," he said dreamily. "Damn good supplier."

"Six per-cent solution. Where were you getting yours?"

"Sawbridgeworth does have a seedy underside, just like any other city."

"Fuck, up in Hertfordshire they've only got a three percent solution at most. Mind like yours, I'd recommend going up to seven and holding it there. Keep the syringe and the hose. I've got more."

"Thanks," Sherlock breathed. "Oh, hell, this is _nice._ I was missing out."

"Yeah, three percent doesn't do _shit_ if you ask me. Just for curiosity's sake, how old were you when you had your first hit? What was your floodgate?"

"I was eleven," Sherlock said, his mind blissfully otherwise occupied by the cocaine. "Morphine. Hospital-grade morphine."

Valspar stared.

"Fuck, the youngest I've heard of an addiction starting is so close to fourteen that it counts as, and entering the streets at fifteen. You're barely fourteen."

"M-hmm."

"And you come out of Hertfordshire, land of the shitty three-percent solution, with not much more than the clothes on your back, but you've got a fecking _Stradivarius_ and a necklace worth a hundred quid. You explained the necklace. Being a Holmes, your family could probably have afforded a Stradivarius with their pocket change."

"More like two. And _Stradivari_ is the proper singular term."

_"Stradivari,_ whatever. But why the hell did you leave? You could have the fucking best stuff, if you wanted it, with that kind of money, and why did you become an addict, anyway?"

Sherlock's eyes opened. "Do you think I qualify as an addict, Valspar?"

"Once you start to jones, you're an addict, mate. We all are. It's nothing to be ashamed of. But _why?"_

Sherlock sighed.

"I became an addict at the age of eleven because I was hospitalized, the result of a fight in which my brother betrayed me. I was nowhere near prepared to face the mental pain of that, and the morphine kept it away. I graduated to methamphetamine at twelve, heroin at thirteen. Cocaine is a new friend of mine. We're doing quite well together."

"Why did you leave?"

"My parents died. My abusive father, might I add, died first without any closure whatsoever to the enigma surrounding him. My mother joined him a month later. My brother claimed the estate, and being a minor, I had no right to my share, or to fight for it. I've got a chance, once I turn of age, but I don't have much hope. There's a trust fund, a small one, but it's already been promised to a school in London. So, I came here, to lose myself and find myself, to start anew and begin to forge my own path. I was sick of them laying out my life for me, so I took my fate into my own hands."

Valspar's head bowed respectfully.

"And you end up killing somebody your first night."

"Yeah," Sherlock agreed, and grinned again. "Yeah. Wonder what else is going to happen to us?"

**

_Chapter written in twenty minutes. THANK YOU, MURRAY GOLD. THANK YOU, THANK YOU SO MUCH!_


	55. One Of Them

One Of Them

55

"Well, what did you two get into last night?"

Sherlock and Valspar looked up from opposite sides of the fire's remains, then grinned.

"A bit of this, a bit of that," Sherlock ventured.

One of the elders narrowed his eyes.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

Valspar smirked.

"Oh, we killed a man, disposed of his body, and then talked until dawn," he said conversationally. "Nothing that major."

"Not major at all," Sherlock agreed.

The elder stared. "You made your kill mark?"

"M-hmm."

"What did he do to deserve to die?"

"Went after Valspar." Sherlock flexed his fingers. "I wasn't about to stand by and let him be killed."

Valspar met the elder's eyes with a plea: _Don't banish him, please._

"Murder is against our rules," the elder said slowly.

Sherlock froze.

"He's one of us, Typhus," Valspar argued. "He defended me."

Typhus glared. "How did you dispose of the body?"

"Must you know?" Sherlock queried.

Typhus gritted his teeth.

"Let him stay, Typhus," another advised. "Come on. Self-defense is completely acceptable. So what if he included Valspar in that definition?

"But really, how did you dispose of the body?" the defendant added.

Sherlock smirked. "There are quite a few places a person could do that. I found the Thames to be inviting- specifically, its bottom."


	56. Violin Music in a London Alley

Violin Music in a London Alley

56

The tune started as slow and throbbing, then graduated to a rough but attractive sound, growing to a manic pace.

It was intense, and rather insanely fast.

_{"Romanian Wind": Hans Zimmer, "Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows"}_

"Impressive," Valspar remarked when it was finished.

Sherlock half-smirked. "Meretricious."

"It was rather good," Kaz- Valspar's brother, apparently- remarked, warming his hands over the fire.

_{Well, that sums up my two major plot points for this chapter.}_

Sherlock shrugged. "Child's play."

**

It was a quiet evening.

That was what Mycroft thought, walking through the streets of London. Eerily quiet.

Well, he _had_ requested a meeting in this corner of the city for that reason. Nobody interested in state secrets would go there.

The street rats, the ones who saw and heard everything, didn't particularly care. What use would the information be to them?

Thinking of the street rats, inevitably his thoughts turned to his brother.

Thinking of his brother, he could almost hear the violin playing in the distance.

_Romani music,_ he mused. _Why?_

He turned a corner, and ran into her.

She yelped, skittering back. She took a look at him, prepared to either stand her ground or disappear.

He, in turn, looked at her.

And while the quite-certainly mental violin went through the steps of a gypsy song, something inside him panged.

_Unhealthily thin. Taken to a prostitute's profession after everything else failed. Family died when she was young. Hasn't been on the streets long. Can't be much more than fifteen, sixteen, but looks eighteen._

"What's your name?" Mycroft asked, breaking the silence.

She jumped at the sound of his voice. "Anthea," she managed, staring at him. "It's been a while since anyone asked."

Her eyes sharpened.

"What's it to you?"

Mycroft straightened; he was quite a bit taller than her. "Oh, nothing," he replied nonchalantly. "The same way that the fact that you're an orphan is nothing. You had a younger sister and an older brother, but all of them were murdered in front of you. You feel like you could have prevented it. You didn't have any money left after they died, so you went to the streets. After going through what little money you had, you tried every means of making money you could think of. When nothing worked, you turned to the last thing you wanted to, the only thing they kept telling you would work. You took up a prostitute's lifestyle. Might I mention they have an extremely high mortality rate?"

Her eyes were wide. Then she looked _him _over.

"What business does a high-ranking Whitehall paper-pusher have in the shanties of London?" she dared.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

And pain quietly throbbed in his heart.

_You can't save them all, but you can save some._

"Would you care for a job?" he asked, stepping forward. "Not of the sort you're accustomed to, I'm afraid, but you'll learn quickly. Nothing like what you're doing now. You'd be my personal assistant- my secretary, if you will."

He extended a hand. "Mycroft Holmes."

She watched him warily, then took it.

"Can't be worse than this."

**

Well, Mycroft met Anthea, Sherlock played Romani music, aaaaannnddd…

..not much else happened.

Please suggest/prompt, people.


	57. Pallas Athena

Pallas Athena

57

"You know I lied to you, right?"

"Yeah."

Anthea looked up from her computer to Mycroft at his desk. Apparently, she didn't need to say what about.

"Don't pretend that you don't know that I figured it out," he sighed. "Your name. You gave me a false one, your working name. You didn't trust me enough to give me your real one."

He waved a hand at the office they were in. "If an office in Whitehall doesn't prove my point, I'm not sure what will."

_{Mark Gatiss, I have a headache, I am slightly tired, and I'm not sure if having your voice in my head saying your lines is a good thing}_

Anthea adjusted a pile of papers next to her computer. "It's an anagram of Athena. I didn't particularly like the idea of using the name my parents gave me for…" she swallowed. "My _work._ So I changed the letters a bit. Nobody ever got the joke until you."

By the look on his face, he'd figured it out already.

_Pallas Athena,_ Mycroft thought with a smirk. The Greek goddess of wisdom.

And war.

"You got it slightly wrong about my family, by the way," she added, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "My parents were killed in a home invasion back in Greece, as was my older sister and brother. My younger brother got a scholarship to Kimbolton School; we moved here, I got a flat in London while he went there. When he went back to Greece with a rather horrible excuse, I stayed, ran out of money, and went on the streets."

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed. "What was your brother's name, your younger?"

She paused briefly in her work.

"Lukas," she said quietly. "Lukas Yannatos."

**

_Come back.  
-A_

No.  
-L

Please?  
-A

No.  
-L

I've got a place we can both stay at. And money. Please, Lukas.  
-A

No, Athena. I'm not interested.  
-L

If it's a matter of pride, you can easily get a job.  
-A

I said no.  
-L

Why?  
-A

Because I'm not going back to England until I've gotten some sort of solution over what happened. And I don't, not yet. So stop asking, 'Thene.  
-L

The use of her childhood nickname broke her heart.

_And what do you have to lose? A life on the streets, Lukas? Begging and taking drugs and losing yourself among the peasants? Death in an alley before you're twenty-seven?  
-A_

I don't do drugs, Athena. For God's sake, I thought you knew I'm better than that.  
-L

I may not have talked to you for seven years going on eight, but I know when you're lying, Lukas.  
-A

It's nothing major. I'm not an addict, for fuck's sake.  
-L

What is it, then, if it's not major?  
-A

…Heroin. A little bit of heroin never hurt anybody. It's nothing, 'Thene. It's not frequent, not a large dose, just a little bit.  
-L

Heroin, Lukas? Are you shitting me? On the contrary, heroin has been proved to be the most addictive and harmful substance a person could acquire. Let me guess, it's just a little bit to "make you feel better"?  
-A

Fuck off, Athena.  
-L

…Lukas?  
-A

What is it now?  
-L

Please.  
-A

Final answer, Athena: _**no.**__ Now leave me alone.  
-L_

Anthea stared at the screen for a moment, then buried her face in her hands.

"It's when they turn on you that it hurts worst," Mycroft murmured at her side. "The pain digs deep and festers. You get used to it, eventually."

She looked at him, and her eyes were red. "You know?"

Instead of answering, Mycroft pulled up a chair next to hers.

He took out his wallet, opening some hidden compartment and pulling out a picture, giving it to her.

It was a young boy, Anthea saw, who couldn't have been more than eleven, maybe older. Short, curly black hair, piercing green eyes, and a half-smirk on his lips.

"His name is Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. "He was my brother."

**

I'm sorry this wasn't posted yesterday, guys. I just didn't have the energy for it.

I feel like I've pulled this off quite well. Thank you, Lukas Yannatos from seven years ago, for being Greek. I had no idea that you were Anthea's brother. It just happened that way.


	58. Passage to Haggard

Passage to Haggard

_{Passage: adverb; Falconer's term, circa 1100- a term for a juvenile, first-year hawk that has yet to acquire full adult plumage._

Haggard: adverb; Falconer's term, circa 1100- a term for a fully grown, adult raptor or bird of any type, who has entered maturity and gained its adult plumage.}

"When you were a kid, what did you see yourself doing?"

Radovan took a strong pull off of his cigarette. "Not this," he replied, making Sebastian laugh.

He considered. "Actually, I did see myself doing this," he admitted. "The thrill of the kill. I was addicted to it. I wanted to become an assassin, to do it for a living. It seemed like the best thing a person could do with themselves, if you asked me."

He looked at Moran. "You?"

Seb shrugged. "Whatever Jim did, I followed. If we'd gone to fecking Russia-"

"We did go to Russia," Mäsiar reminded him. "Couple of years ago. Killed this irritating berk of a CEO for a nice chunk of change."

"That was you, not me."

"You came with. Bitched like nothing else about the weather, you did," Radovan reminded him, flicking the ash off of his cigarette.

"Did I?" Seb's brow furrowed as he took a drag off of his own. "Hmm. Anything in particular I said?"

"Let me think." Radovan tilted his head, cracking his neck loudly. "You made several unflattering comments about my mother because I dragged you out there, apparently. You called me a bastard, a fucking ass, and- if I remember correctly- told me to _feisigh do thoin fein,_ whatever that means-"

"Oh!" Seb snapped his fingers. "Winter. Moscow. Vablatsky."

"Yes."

"Incidentally, _feisigh do thoin fein_ is Gaelic for _fuck your own ass."_

"Charming." Radovan flexed his fingers. "I think you had a nasty headcold right about then, too. I wanted to shoot you, put you out of your misery, but Jim said no."

"Don't kill him, Radovan," Moriarty called from a fair distance away, apparently eavesdropping. "He's useful."

"Nosy bastard," Mäsiar muttered under his breath before shouting back. "I'm better with a knife than he is, though!"

"He handles a gun better."

"Does not!" Radovan returned.

"He's nice to have around when you're gone."

Radovan snorted. "Touché."

"I feel loved," Sebastian muttered.

"You're not."

"Sarcasm, Radovan."

"Yes, I am aware of that."

*

_{And nothing else is coming out of the brain…}_

_{Tiny chapter is tiny. It's sort of cute. It's pointless! IT'S ADORABLE!}_

_{We only have 42 chapters of druggie!sherlock left. We've got to make them count…}_

{…TIME FOR CHAPTER PADDING A/Ns}

So I pulled an all nighter day before yesterday {16/17th.} Yesterday (17) I was too tired to write properly: lo, crappy _On the Side of the Angels_ chapter and nonexistent _The Dark Side of the Moon_ chapter.

And now there's this, me still awake at two A.M. padding a short and useless chapter with author's notes.

…Oh. Trying to type a note, my plotline just went "Yay! FLAW!"

…We must work on that flaw, brain…

No, I'm not going to tell you guys. I'm just that big of a bitch.

This is _not_ today's chapter, it is _yesterday's_ chapter. _Day-Before-Yesterday's_ chapter is 57.

Fanfiction rule: it's okay to violate a one-a-day rule if you make up for it.

Now I have to write _two_ chapters for _On the Side of the Angels._

God help us.


	59. I Bleed Just The Same As You

I Bleed Just The Same As You

59

"The hell happened to you?" Valspar wondered as he dropped down next to Sherlock in the alleyway.

Sherlock pulled another piece of metal out of the wound on his arm. "He wanted an exorbitant amount of money for a small amount of cocaine. I said no. He pulled a weapon, demanded that I give him everything I had on me. I told him he could go fuck himself. He put the weapon to good use."

"And what happened to him?" Valspar queried.

"He's sporting a broken jaw."

"Ah."

Silence.

"What the hell did he use on you, anyway?"

"A nailgun."

"A _nailgun?"_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, delicately probing the wound with forceps. "Yeah. A nailgun. And apparently, with a rather low-quality nail that shattered upon impacting the bone."

Philosophically, he pushed the cut wider to look for more pieces. Slightly nauseated, Valspar looked away.

"Doesn't that, you know, hurt?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied patiently. "It hardly provides competition for the time I got into a rather nasty knife fight." He shuddered, just slightly, at the memory. _Red snow. Pine trees with needles like knives. Radovan Mäsiar, his eyes as grey as stormclouds-_

"You've got that look going again."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Look?"

"That _my-mind-is-nowhere-near-my-body_ look. It's rather dangerous around here."

"Mm. So it is." Apparently finding was he was seeking, Sherlock snagged something with the forceps. Morbidly fascinated, Valspar watched as he dragged a three-inch long jagged spike out of the channel it had cut when it had split off from the main projectile.

He swallowed, running his tongue over his teeth when Sherlock dropped it carelessly on the pavement.

"Good thing I didn't plan on eating for a while," he managed.

Sherlock looked up. "You were planning to go out for dinner at some sort of fancy restaurant later on, actually."

"Yeah, you're right," Valspar agreed easily, suddenly engrossed by the wall to their left. "Ah, change of plans."

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked. "You look a bit green. Squeamish, Valspar?"

Valspar shifted uneasily. "Yeah."

Sherlock smirked. "You didn't seem that badly affected when-"

"That was different. He was somebody I didn't know who tried to kill me. I don't fancy watching one of my mates dissect his own arm, thank you very much."

Sherlock watched him, that half-smile still on his face, the forceps poised over the gash.

"It makes you uneasy because it reminds you that I'm human."

Valspar stared. _"What?"_

"You've elevated me to a superhuman state in your mind. You see me as an anomaly, an enigma, something beyond you and superior. An angel of death, perhaps, a freak, a monster. I've been reliably informed that I am a heartless machine." He set aside the forceps, beginning to easily stitch the gash back together like he'd been doing it for years. "Don't make that mistake, Valspar. I'm human. I bleed just the same as you."

He finished the stitching, then picked up the final piece of metal again, holding it between his fingers and up to the moonlight.

_"Quetis ilfiramain,"_ he murmured, almost too quietly for anyone else to hear.

"What?" Valspar asked.

Sherlock twitched. "Ah… Quenya. _It speaks to those who were not born to die."_

Resigning himself to the fact that the inner machinations of Sherlock Holmes would be an eternal mystery to all humankind, Valspar leaned back against the wall in time for Sherlock to pocket the shard and stand.

"Where d'you think you're going?"

Sherlock only smiled to himself, brushing dirt off of his trousers before looking up at the moon.

"There are worlds out there," he began softly, "where the sky is burning, and the sea's asleep, and the rivers dream. People are made of smoke, and cities are made of songs. Somewhere there's danger; somewhere there's injustice, and somewhere else-" he bent down, snatching the thermos out of Valspar's hands and taking a long, deep drink- "the tea's getting cold," Sherlock finished, and strode into the night.

His coat billowed around his knees in a sudden gust of wind. For a brief moment, when he ascended to the rooftops, he was silhouetted against the moonlight.

And then he was gone.

"He Who Walks Alone, indeed," Valspar breathed.

In an alley no more than seven feet away, a boy- perhaps fourteen or fifteen- stared, then began to work at his phone.

_You awake?_

The reply was short in coming.

_Street life. Afghanistan. Of course I'm awake. What else would I be doing?  
And what have you done now?_

The man/boy's lips curved.

_You're not going to believe this._

He quickly sent the video. The reply took a bit longer to come, accounting for viewing time.

_Holy shit. Who the hell is that?_

The man/boy considered.

_I'm not sure. He's known more by title than by name- He Who Walks Alone.  
Friend of mine's taken to calling him the "Angel of Death"._

A pause.

_Dead serious?  
I'll have to show this to the people I know over here.  
It's nice to know that even in the darkest holes… well, there's someone that gives a flying fuck on occasion. I'll sleep easier for it. Thanks for that._


	60. Thieves and Beggars

Thieves and Beggars

60

_{Sixty chapters. I feel… old. Only forty chapters of druggie-Sherlock left, and today, there's a plot twist!_

_**Plotline Change:**__ Chapter Ninety-Nine will __**not**__ be "Phoenix Rising", where Sherlock is finishing his rehab and going to work. Chapter Ninety-Nine will be "Death's Dare", Sherlock's overdose._

Thank you, and back to our regularly scheduled peasantry.}

"You sure he's all right?"

"Kaz." Valspar flexed his fingers over the fire. "Seriously. Chill. You're being a fussy bitch."

"But I mean, he's not that big of a bloke. Somebody could-"

Valspar rolled his eyes and snickered. "Bitch, _please._ He's He Who Walks Alone. God himself couldn't strike that fucking bastard down."

"Don't jinx it, now," a voice breathed, his breath hitting the back of Valspar's neck.

Valspar lunged forward, scrabbling to his feet, turning and drawing his knife all in one motion as he stepped away, then nearly set himself on fire. The result flare of heat on his legs made him yelp, then jump forward, nearly bowling Sherlock over.

Kaz turned a distinctly unhealthy shade of blue before he regained himself.

The instant he took a breath to speak, a sound- unearthly, inhuman- echoed suddenly over the streets, a screeching howl so loud that it felt close and distant at the same time.

Sherlock pressed his back against the wall, his hand flying to his hip. His pupils dilated, he bared his teeth slightly; his nostrils flared.

The sound cut off with a choked cry punctuated by a loud, ear-piercing yelp.

"Dogfight," Valspar whispered, loosening his death-grip on his own dagger; Sherlock's knuckles remained bone-white. "It happens."

There was another yelp.

And then another, toned with surprise, then a bark.

Then another shocked yelp.

And then-

It was a _scream,_ a bloody, murderous _scream._ A quiet, instinctive growl jerked out of Sherlock's throat as he flinched violently, the hair on his arms raising. Valspar swallowed, pressing his hands to his ears.

It did nothing to dull the sound, the sound of a beast in uttermost agony.

"Oh, God," Kaz managed, quickly curling into a fetal position and putting his head between his knees. "Valspar, they're- they're- Jesus Christ- they're- _God's sake, why do they do that, __**why?"**_

The screaming didn't even seem to stop for breathing, going on without a single pause.

"Jesus," Valspar almost prayed, sliding to his knees, holding his head in his hands. "Jesus Christ. Sweet Blessed Virgin Mary." He braced his elbows on his knees. "Give the thing mercy, for the love of all that is holy. We might be thieves and beggars, but we don't have to lower ourselves to _this._ Have they no honor? No pride? No sense of fucking _humanity?"_

"What," Sherlock asked slowly, pointing his dagger in the direction of the sound, his left hand fisted so tightly that his fingernails were digging into his skin deep enough to make him bleed, "are they doing?"

Valspar pressed his fingertips to his forehead.

"They're skinning the beast alive," he whispered. "There's a healthy market for furs, and sometimes when a street dog dies somebody'll skin it if it's fresh enough. And then… and then you have the bastards who take a living animal and flay off its skin while it's still breathing. It's a torture technique to them, too, if they get their hands of a human." He pulled back his sleeve, revealing a scar that encompassed his wrist. "Hurts like nothing else, I can tell you that."

Disgusted, Sherlock shoved his knife back into its sheath. The previous owner had probably put it to similar uses. "How long does it take?" he hissed, pressing his hands to his temples.

Understanding perfect the sharp spikes of pain dragging through his skull- they all felt it- Valspar could easily pardon the irritability.

"Hours."

**

_For clarity: Kaz, Valspar's younger brother, our beloved graffitist from The Blind Banker, is right about seven right now. He skips between a rough home life and life with his brother on the streets. He hates being home, but he isn't old enough for a full-time street life. As I don't remember having a "oh he's X age" moment when I first saw him, let's make him about twenty-one in canon time, yes?_

This is a short'n'stubby little chapter mostly to prove that I'm not dead. I painted myself into a corner with _On the Side of the Angels,_ and now I have to figure out how to get out. And I'm like four- soon to be five- chapters behind. Once we're done with _A Study in Pink,_ we'll get back on track, I promise. Then it'll be on to _The Blind Banker._ Yay!

Thank you, Lo613, for being a sounding board. You disappeared from our textchat rather suddenly. Did you die or something?

As nobody's sent me "omg are you alive" messages on Tumblr yet, here's my account so you can: _thatinsanefanficauthor {.} tumblr {.} com._

Have at it. Reviewbox is always open.


	61. Psych

Psych

61

Sherlock took a long, deep drag off of his cigarette, nodding towards the boy-almost-man sitting across the alley from them. "Who's he?"

Valspar looked up from his close-to-sleep state. "Oh, him? He doesn't talk much. His name's… Mohammad, I think."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed; he flicked the ash off of his cigarette. "Odd skin color for a Mideast name."

"He's got an Afghani cousin. They talk constantly," Valspar explained, waving a hand at the way Mohammad was utterly engrossed in his technology. "Nobody can ever get more than a couple words out of him."

Sherlock half-smirked.

_A challenge._

"Hey."

Mohammad looked up briefly. "Hi."

He returned to his laptop.

A pause.

"Not interested, by the way."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh?"

"Chances are you want me to ferret for you, or gather information, or otherwise make myself subservient. Not interested, not for any amount of money you can dream of, but thanks for the offer."

_Oh, yes._

"But-"

"Still not interested. So fuck off."

Sherlock smiled to himself.

Valspar leaned back to better watch the show.

"You can now feel your tongue inside your mouth."

A crease appeared between Mohammad's eyes. "What…" Then those rich-brown eyes widened. "Oh. Oh my god. Oh my fucking _God._ _Make it stop."_

"You are now breathing manually," Sherlock commented casually. "You are now aware of every time you blink."

Mohammad stared, then blinked. "Stop it-"

"Every time you swallow, there is a small crackling noise." Sherlock leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his eyes glowing with their intensity. True to form, Mohammad swallowed, and his fists clenched. "You are now aware that your nose is always in your peripheral vision. You are now aware of your clothes touching your skin-"

Mohammad instantly set his laptop aside, clawing at his sleeve. _"Stop it!"_

Sherlock grinned.

"Fine, I'll do whatever you want," Mohammad muttered. "Don't do that again. Please. The name's Mohammad Sajadi-Khan." He pulled back his right sleeve, showing a long scar that ran from his middle knuckle to his elbow.

Sherlock tilted his head. "Sherlock Holmes," he volunteered. "Also known as He Who Walks Alone." He pulled back his sleeve, showing the dozens- possibly hundreds- of scars from burns, cuts and stab-wounds.

Mohammad touched the first three fingers of his right hand to his forehead, then went back to his computer.

_British-Saker: _Remember that video I showed you?

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Yes. Went completely viral over here.__

British-Saker: Found out his name. Sherlock Holmes. Also known as He Who Walks Alone.__

The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan: Dramatic.

_British-Saker:_ New username?__

The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan: The old one wasn't quite cutting it for me anymore.

_British-Saker:_ What's so much better about this one?

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Well, that video had a Doctor Who quote, you know. It sort of made me famous. And sometimes I like to imagine that the Doctor's real, and someday something will happen to get me out of this pit of hell. Hence what I keep hoping for: the TARDIS in Afghanistan.

_British-Saker:_ Makes sense.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan: _Yeah. Better than yours.

_British-Saker:_ Well, I **am** in Britain.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ But why a saker? Why a saker falcon?

_British-Saker:_ They're a favorite of Arabian falconers for their enthusiasm for the hunt.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Never figured you as bloodthirsty, Mohammad.

_British-Saker: _I'm not.

_British-Saker:_ Well, not particularly, anyway.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Good qualification. You need a bit of a hunter's instinct to survive on the streets.

_British-Saker:_ Speaking of a hunter's instinct, I seem to have somehow been enlisted into the service of Sherlock Holmes. I'm not really sure how it happened.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ You, Mohammad? You keep rubbing it in my face how you're entirely independent. What happened?

_British-Saker:_ He's totally insane. He figured out what would unsettle me the most, then used it against me. Creepy bastard. Completely insane, Káma, and yet the most organized mind I have ever met.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Including me? I'm offended.

_British-Saker:_ Oh, don't be. You saw him. He looks weird. He's weird. He's just a really weird man. Man-child. I don't know how old he is.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Maybe he's immortal. Like The Doctor.

_British-Saker: _Shut up, you Whovian.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ If I must.

**The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan has disconnected**


	62. Who We Were, Who We Are

Who We Were, Who We Are

62

In Buckingham Palace, completely alone, he walked the halls, his footsteps utterly silent.

It was a world inside a world, the elder Holmes thought. A place secluded from everything else, and yet so deeply immersed at the same time; a place where you could walk into a room that hadn't been changed since the eighteen hundreds, take in a sharp breath of surprise, and still smell whiskey and tobacco if you tried hard enough.

It was a place of dynasty that had seen grief and joy, where wars had been conceived inside those ancient rooms and their solutions born in the halls.

It was the only place in the world, thought Mycroft, that might have given Undershaw a run for its money in terms of what it had experienced.

_And here I am, on the very verge of reaching my goal. The weather is slowly growing colder, and the nights possess a bitter chill._

And distinctly, on the night that most would be celebrating, he felt a quiet grief in his chest.

Finding what he'd been looking for, he took the seat in front of the piano and began to play.

**

"You never sleep," Valspar muttered, cracking an eyelid to peer at Sherlock. "Ever."

Swaying slightly in tune to his violin, Sherlock smiled to himself. "Quite."

"What are you, a fecking vampire or something?"

He snickered quietly. "No."

"What _are_ you, then?" Valspar snipped, exhausted. Mohammad tapped away contentedly at his keyboard on his other side.

Sherlock watched as a shadow detached itself from the darkness, approaching.

"Something else," he replied quietly.

He set the Stradivari into its case in a quick movement, locking it away, then standing.

"What is it?" he demanded of the vagrant who ran up. "What's happened now?"

The teenager- fifteen, maybe sixteen at Valspar's guess- panted. "The Ratway- Quinto- trouble- there was a knife- and a gun- and I think somebody's dead, you have to go and look-"

Without another word, Sherlock disappeared. The vagrant took in one last breath, looking around; he dipped his head in Valspar's direction, then vanished.

Valspar raised his drink in salute, making a subtle gesture with his fingers as he did so.

"Why?" Mohammad asked without lifting his head.

Valspar lowered his hand. "Why what?"

"Why the thing with your fingers? It was a rather odd conflict of interests: a sign for goodbye to a well-liked friend, regarded as submissive to yourself, like a child. The second was a hail, a greeting to either an equal to a superior. Why?"

Valspar smirked. Sherlock had been right.

"I was saying goodbye to the man I used to know who carried fresh agony in his eyes and was afraid to be touched. I was saying goodbye to Sherlock Holmes, the man I once knew."

"And?" Mohammad asked, still having not lifted his eyes from his laptop.

"I was greeting the coming of He Who Walks Alone," Valspar murmured, fisting his hand and staring at it. "The one who guards the streets and fights until his enemy lies dead at his feet. The lonely god."

_British-Saker:_ In other news: Sherlock Holmes is still weird.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ You just realized this now?

_British-Saker:_ Not quite. But apparently he's made his kill mark.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Oh, are you scared of him now? I've made my kill mark. You have, too, haven't you?

_British-Saker:_ Of course I have, Káma.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Every-fucking-body and their dog's made their mark over here. I'm not kidding; it's a rite of passage for a dog to kill something. Or someone.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Or die trying.

_British-Saker:_ Dogfights? Organized?

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Oh, yes. The sounds, Mohammad… I'll never forget the sounds. Sometimes they turn on their handlers, the rabid things, and they have to shoot the man who's been bitten along with his beast.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ I won't forget the gunshots, either.

_British-Saker:_ It's like living in a war. It's like walking through fire and fighting tooth and nail on the other side. Living is like pushing the world up a hill and not pausing for breath.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Or being thrown into an arena without a weapon and everyone is set on killing **you.**

_British-Saker:_ And the world is on _fire,_ just by the way, while you're fighting. It's on fire and everyone's out to kill you and nobody gives a fuck if you die and it's easier to die anyway and nobody really knows why they're still alive and everyone does drugs and nobody is in their right mind and for them life is a string of lights with the lights being the hits and the string being the patches between and when they don't get it, Káma, when they don't get it, they turn murderous and bloodthirsty and when they have it they go into rages at the smallest damn things and it's not fair, _it's not fucking fair!_

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ I have to go. There's another sweep happening. I can hear the gunshots.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ I'll message later if I can.

_British-Saker:_ Good luck.

**

Mycroft finished the final part of the piece, then looked up.

"Impressive."

He stood smoothly, walking over to the figure in the doorway.

"I do try my best," he replied evenly, looking straight into her eyes- as an _equal._

"…My Queen."


	63. Firearms

Firearms

63

"Should you really be doing that?"

Sherlock tossed the handgun high in the air, watching it turn end over end, before catching it by the barrel when it came back down.

"Probably not," he conceded, and threw it back up again.

Valspar flinched. Mohammad looked supremely unconcerned.

_British-Saker:_ He's throwing a pistol in the air now and catching it when it comes back down.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ You were right. He's totally batshit crazy.

_British-Saker:_ Yep.

"Where did you get that, anyway?"

This time, when he caught it by the barrel, he turned it in his hand in a very quick movement, holding it properly: Valspar barely had time to cover his ears before-

_Bang!_

_British-Saker:_ He's totally fucking lost it: he's shooting the walls now.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Again?

"The little affair with Quinto in the Ratway," Sherlock replied. "You heard the messenger say there was a knife and a gun involved. Quinto got the knife for his hardship, I got the gun for my trouble, the attacker lost his life, and everybody walked away fairly happy. Except for the attacker, of course, and I imagine Quinto was vaguely displeased with the wounds he now has that will scar deeply."

Valspar looked at him.

_"Must_ you do that?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. He flicked the gun up even higher than before, then deftly snatched it. "Without something to focus on, my brain rots. It's like an engine, a machine; with material to smooth the inner workings properly, it operates perfectly. Without that, it tears itself to pieces."

As if suddenly realizing, he dug inside his coat.

"You used up your last a couple hours ago," Valspar advised. "Yours is stronger than mine. If you want to downgrade to five percent instead of seven, be my guest, but it won't be nearly the same rush."

_"Fuck,"_ Sherlock snarled, throwing the gun at the wall and catching it when it bounced back.

_Boredom, withdrawal: if somebody doesn't do something, he's going to end up killing us all-_

"External carotid," Valspar prompted, "internal carotid, common carotid, left subclavian-"

Sherlock's eyes brightened.

"Right vertebral, brachiocephalic, axillary, thoracic aorta, superior mesenteric, celiac axis, brachial, renal, inferior mesenteric, radial, ulnar, superficial palmer arch, abdominal aorta, right common iliac, internal iliac, external iliac, femoral, popliteal, peroneal, anterior tibial, posterior tibial, dorsalis pedis, arcuate."

He sucked in a breath.

"Of which the femoral, carotid, vertebral, aorta, axillary, and iliac are choice for killing blows."

Mohammad stared.

_British-Saker:_ He just listed every artery in the human body from top to bottom and then said which would be preferred for killing someone.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan: _…

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ I'm not exactly sure what the appropriate response to that actually is.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Curiosity's sake, which did he pick for death-blows?

_British-Saker:_ You're as sick as he is. I should introduce you two. He favored the femoral, carotid, vertebral, aorta, axillary and iliac.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Well, somebody knows what they're talking about.

_British-Saker:_ I'm more worried about waking up to find him performing a vivisection on me.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Ooh, vivisections.

_British-Saker:_ Creep.

**British-Saker has disconnected**


	64. To Walk London while Completely Still

To Walk the Streets of London while Completely Still

64

_First, get to know a location like the back of your hand. Examine it until you can remember every detail with your eyes closed._

That was the first essential step of a mind palace: learn a place to have in your mind and fill with your memories.

The first, for Sherlock, had been his room, and slowly expanded to include a large portion of Undershaw.

And now, slowly but surely, a transformation took place.

It went through a complete rebuilding, halls becoming streets, rooms becoming buildings, until one day when he went to look through it, it struck him.

The mind palace, instead of Undershaw, was now London.

And yet, not quite London.

The geography was exact, and the locations were metaphors for what memories they contained.

The path, as of yet, started at the Eye of London. There were several different paths to take, but the vast majority started at the Eye.

The houses loomed overhead, their roofs slanting invitingly; occasionally a door would bear a unique scar, a trigger for a fight worth remembering.

Going through the slums, it served as more of a remembered map; the more notable buildings, however, got much more use, and were beginning to collect memories with relevance to themselves.

The London of the Mind Palace, however, differs from the real in one major aspect: it is fenced in by massive walls of black stone. The walls break only for the Thames, and for the four cardinal directions marked by gigantic gates of onyx.

And outside of London is a great, sweeping forest, eternally covered in snow. There are tracks, and it is divided into two parts by the winding Thames.

In the first half, the trees are tall but widely-spaced pines. Their needles vary between short and long, and they drip with memories of the abuse a young boy suffered at the hands of his father.

In the distance, Undershaw looms, and horrors are within its walls.

For the division of the halves that the path takes, the Thames splits for an island. The river varies between ice and water, but in either state, it is easily crossed. This is the only island in the entirely of the Thames inside Sherlock's mind.

The ground is soft under the snow, a gentle mix of sand and loam. In the exact center, an obsidian monolith- the Seventh Spire- is like a jagged fang thrust from the earth, covered in runes.

Somehow visible from all sides, a pure-white dagger, marred with battle's scars, is set into the stone like a gem.

It is the marker of innocence's end.

On the other side, the trees loom high above, and their branches are sweeping. The needles, incredibly long and sharp, drag on the skin and draw blood.

And every touch sings of pain.

The tracks lead to the one of two clearings in the woods, and here the snow is broken from being pristine. The trail flanges out to three forks.

In the clearing, the snow is trampled, and it is bloodied. There is a faint trace of it going away from the center.

In the center, the snow is red.

And here are the memories of the girl whose life was ripped from her before she could even begin to realize what it was.

A scimitar lies in the middle of the bloodstain; it is the trigger for the memory of her murder.

The necklace is draped over it, the phoenix resting just in front of the hilt. It shines in the light, and it is the memory of her, her scent, her sound, her look.

The blood-trace leading away from that spot is clear and consistent. It leads to the second clearing, and this one is smaller.

The snow in this one is also stained, marked with the signs of a fight. And the tree is pure black, its needles steel-grey. The word _checkmate_ is carved into its' bark.

The tree and the word are the only signs that Radovan Mäsiar is allowed. They are _him,_ the essence of the murderer, the torturer, the cold, cruel machine. They are the embodiment of the Slovakian with eyes like flint and the hands of a man who savored causing pain. They are the marker of the owner of the brain that would see fit to kill a young girl in cold blood.

And _laugh_ as he walked away.

Undershaw is a fairly long way away, less if you're anxious to make the journey and want to snap to the location quickly, but much more if those thoughts are the last thing you want to remember.

The driveway is long, and even though the wrought-iron gates open before any who desire to enter, it gives one last chance to think: _are you sure you want to be here?_

The door makes a thrill of fear run up his spine, and the ancient silver knocker is all the trigger he needs for Mycroft's betrayal. There is no need to go inside and relive the memories of his parents.

It would be much, much simpler to just _delete_ Mycroft, but every time he thought about doing it, something had stopped him.

They had been brothers, once. Once, Mycroft had been his closest friend and confidant, a safe harbor in the storm. He had been the one to help stop the blood from wounds and hide the bruises.

Those memories are always with him, because they are etched into his mind, attached to the main part of the mind-palace but separate. They are the quiet talks on cold evenings, the comfort of a warm room when the heating had been cut off from his own. They are the feel of gentle fingers setting a bone, of grey eyes- warm, _comforting-_ quietly concerned.

They are the distinct joy of a voice at three in the morning, protesting the violin, even though they both knew it was a ruse.

And back in London, is the trigger for those memories, because Undershaw does not deserve them, and nor does the forest.

The Royal Opera House is grand and sweeping in all of it's glory. The place is entirely empty, except for the main theatre.

In the theatre is every single person of remote relevance: Valspar, leaned back casually in a chair, looking bored as he waits for the performance to start; Mohammad, his legs crossed in an eerily Mycroft-like fashion, works contentedly at his computer as he passes the time.

These are the people in Sherlock's world, the ones worth not deleting. Mycroft, in the highest row, has his elbows braced on his knees. His fingers are woven together, and he rests his chin on them; he watches Sherlock, and Sherlock purposefully does not look at him as he walks to the Stage.

The Stage is enormous, and also empty, except for two things.

There is a stool.

And on the stool rests the Stradivari, the bow crossed over the body as if someone had only just set it down. The wood shines with a magnificent glow, and in his hand, the bow feels vibrantly alive.

And this, _this,_ the violin, the holiest of things, is the trigger for the brother Sherlock had once known.

But it is not right for Sherlock to be on the Stage; it is not his place. He sets the violin back in place, exactly as it was.

Under the stool is a syringe, and it is full of a clear liquid, waiting and ready.

But the Stage is not Sherlock's by right; it is wrong for him to be there. This is the one spot in the Mind Palace that is not his domain.

Every palace needs its monarch. For Sherlock, the Stage is their throne.

And for now, the violin and the drug reign.

**

…_This._ _This_ is the deepest chapter I have ever done. It is 2:12 in the morning, and I just cast off the writer's block that was hitting at the part about the Eye of London. It's an ungodly hour of the morning, it's dark outside- although the moon is bright, I took a walk a while ago- and it's eighteen-degrees-feels-like-ten out there, and it was half that earlier.

It is Tuesday, November 27, 2012, 2:14 in the morning Central Standard Time, and I just wrote something… that I don't really have the words for.

_Review Replies:_

_Marie:_ _Of __course_the circulatory system is more important than the solar system! It's obvious, isn't it?

The piano piece Mycroft played was "I Am (not) The Doctor". I thought you'd figure it out, as you were the one to suggest it.

An actual case, you say? _Hmm…_

_ThoroughlySherlocked:_ The cell signal is being pissy lately. Lo613 will testify to my rage-I-hate-AT&T texts. I'm so sorry.

_Sherlockian082994:_ Well, you got your wish, didn't you? ;)

_ThoroughlySherlocked_ (again): Yep. Thanks to Lo613 and a rather… embarrassing discovery I made… about the meaning of Radovan's name… Rather than keep it hidden away forever like Lo613 suggested or show it in a blooper, I'm going to incorporate it with her other suggestion. Which is a secret. Classified. Like Anthea's real name.

Oh, and the blooper about _British-Saker_ being an actual Saker falcon is on its way. It gets an entire chapter to itself: _Woes of a Saker Falcon._ If you like reading about birds trying to type on keyboards, stay tuned.

**To Everyone Else:** Have a _fantastic_ day today, and go forth and be conductors/stimulators of light. Don't jump off of buildings. Don't do drugs, as I've got a friend who's recovering from his second heart valve replacement because of drugs he did ten years ago. He's doing magnificently, so far, thank you for asking. You should probably toss a thanks his way because _quite_ a few chapters (and the _Civil Partnership_ oneshot) were conceived of and written at his house.


	65. Woes of a Saker Falcon

The Woes of a Saker Falcon

65

_{In comparison to "To Walk London while Completely Still", this is probably the __shallowest__ chapter I've ever written.}_

{Properly, a male falcon is called a tiercel. Or, in the case of saker falcons, a sacret. But for the sake of reader understanding, we'll call him a falcon.}

**Blooper, Requested by ThoroughlySherlocked: **_**"British-Saker"**_** from our previous chapters, AKA Mohammad Sajadi-Khan, is actually a saker falcon.**

Name of God, this was infuriating.

Any onlooker would have laughed.

The tips of his talons catching on the keys, the bird executed an agile pirouette, trying to hit both the shift key and his desired key at the same time.

What came out:

_British-Saker: _AZXSDyjtopmfrogh;j

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ …Beg your pardon?

The bird gave an angry _scree,_ and resorted, temporarily, to pecking the keys.

_British-Saker:_ i'm trying to make a fecking uppercase letter

_British-Saker:_ damn hallux keeps getting in the way

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Me, I just rest the keyboard on my hallux and type away.

{Hallux = the toe on the back of the bird's foot}

_British-Saker:_ oh sure

_British-Saker:_ just sit there

_British-Saker:_ in all of your

_British-Saker:_ vulturey glory

Infuriated, he slammed his left foot onto the blasted shift key, then attempted to karate-chop the desired key with his other foot.

After having to trim away the keys he hit by accident- and after more karate-chopping- a coherent sentence was formed.

_British-Saker:_ Don't mind us lesser birds with smaller feet and tiny legs and tiny bodies having to fucking improvise. Oh, no, don't mind me, dancing over the damn keyboard.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ …

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ …xD

And that was the final straw.

_British-Saker:_ you know what, Káma? i've got something you don't.

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Oh? What's that?

_British-Saker:_ you know what

_British-Saker:_ fuck you

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Well, that escalated quickly-

_British-Saker:_ I HAVE CAPS LOCK

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Well that really escalated quite suddenly-

_British-Saker:_ AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE

_British-Saker:_ CAPS LOCK IS BETTER THAN SHIFT. IT'S LIKE HOLDING THE SHIFT KEY CONSTANTLY BUT BETTER

_British-Saker:_ LOOK AT ME, STANDING OVER HERE, TYPING LIKE A BOSS

_British-Saker:_ AND YOU'RE JUST SITTING THERE ALL DUMBFOUNDED LIKE

_British-Saker:_ SO COME AT ME THEN IF YOU WANT TO

_British-Saker:_ BUT THINK ABOUT THIS FIRST

_British-Saker:_ HOW I'VE SO EFFECTIVELY HANDED YOU YOUR ASS

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Well this really did escalate quickly but what is your point-

_British-Saker:_ AND THEN

_British-Saker:_ **AND THEN**

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ Dude, did you just hack the server and make your text bold?

_British-Saker: _DO THE SMART THING

_British-Saker:_ Let someone else try first.

_British-Saker:_ CAPSLOCK FOREVER

**British-Saker has disconnected**

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ …

_The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:_ I'm not really sure what just happened, but okay.

**The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan has disconnected**

**

If anybody saw my _"Fuck you, I won a BAFTA!"_ reference before I pointed it out, they get a cookie. Or a cookie-alternative of their choice which may or may not be a cookie or a select scrap of text… *quiet self-satisfied snicker*

First one to build a shrine to Lo613 gets lots of my love and will be showered in gifts.

This scene wasn't much planned beyond keyboard-karate-chopping and the _CAPSLOCK FOREVER_ bit. And then Stonehenge happened. Yep, Stonehenge. Whovians rejoice!

Also known as the Pandorica speech. It just sort of… happened.

_Review Replies:_

Nameless Guest of Excellent Grammar: Well, that could really work, you know, as a plotline. And now I have two scenes in my head I could kill the fanfic with and _they must not be used in that context._

Fortunately I don't think the Brain will do that to us. If all goes well, this fanfic will _never end._ Ever. I mean like ever.

_Sherlockian082994:_ I spelled your name right this time without doublechecking to the browser. I'm proud of me. In any case: well, you got your wish again, didn't you?

_ThroughlySherlocked:_ You were too lazy to log in again? Rude. Anyway: Yeah, my friend did drugs. He's been clean for nine years after he got an infection in his heart that made him have his valve replaced for the first time.

Long ANs are win.

AND SO IS CAPSLOCK, AT LEAST SOMEBODY AROUND HERE'S GOT THEIR SHIT STRAIGHT


	66. This Is What I Am: Radovan Mäsiar

_This Is What I Am: Radovan Rafinovaný Mäsiar_

66

Devínska Nová Ves.  
Brastislava IV.  
Bratislava.  
Slovakia.  
December 18.  
1975.

The Morava sang.

The woman's eyes were closed, a soft, sweet smile on her lips. The Morava sang, she thought again, tracing her fingertips over her swollen stomach. _The river sings, and there is hope._

Snowflakes fluttered past the window, interspersed with the occasional raindrop, as the man- her husband- ducked under the doorway, holding a lantern in his hand.

"The power's gone out," he explained, holding the lantern higher to spread the light across the room. "I looked, and it's not on our side. There must be a power line down somewhere."

She opened her eyes.

"You fret too much," the woman told him bluntly.

Hemade a disapproving sound. "I only-"

She rolled her eyes. "Ognjen," she murmured, "the simple fact of the electricity going out does not equate the end of the world."

"But what if-"

"Ognjen."

"Katrina."

"Come here."

He obeyed, sitting at her side.

She reached for him, taking his hand and resting it on her stomach.

"We have our son," she said softly. "That is enough."

Something quiet shone in Ognjen's eyes. "He needs a name," he replied quietly.

"Something strong, that will bid well for his life," she murmured. "Bold and bright."

Ognjen traced his fingers over her skin. His own name- _Fire-_ had served him well, he mused, his steel-grey eyes glinting in the light from the lantern.

"Radovan," he whispered.

Katrina's lips curved.

"Yes," she agreed. "And something else to set him apart, to make him brilliant. A mind like a sword, our boy will have."

Ognjen's eyes glinted with approval.

"Rafinovaný," Katrina suggested.

Ognjen smiled.

"Perfect."

*

Exactly a month later- January 18, 1976- Radovan Rafinovaný Mäsiar was born.

And on January 18, 1976, Katrina Mäsiar died shortly after giving birth to her son.

**

And years later, now dangerously close to becoming a man, that same son sat in a warehouse with a laptop perched on his lap, burningly curious.

_Radovan- name definition,_ he typed into the search engine.

A few clicks brought him to what he wanted, and then-

"Doesn't fit you at all," Seb commented, biting into an apple as he stood over his shoulder. "I mean seriously, not at all. Did your parents think you'd be some sort of happy-go-lucky fairy or something?"

Radovan's shoulders stiffened. "In Slovakia, names are usually meant to be a wish of said thing to the child."

"Oh." Seb took another bite of his apple. "Still. Freaking happy-go-lucky fairy. Doesn't fit you at all."

_"The joyful one,"_ Radovan muttered. "You're right for once, Seb."

"Based off of the word _rad,_ meaning _joy_ or _eagerness_ or _caring,_" Moran read out. Then he looked at his comrade. "What the fuck were your parents thinking?"

He made a mental note to taunt the other relentlessly with the list of nicknames.

Radovan sighed, a very rare occurrence-in all of the years they'd known each other, lived and eaten and slept and hunted and killed together, Sebastian could count on his hands the number of times he'd seen Radovan Mäsiar sigh.

He closed the laptop, pushing it away.

"It does fit, if you take in the rest of my name."

Seb took another bite of his apple. "I forgot what your last name means. You Slovakians are fucking weird, you know?"

Radovan's shoulders slumped.

"My mother died in childbirth. Her heart gave out."

"Oh." Untactfully, Seb took another chunk out of his apple. "I'm sorry to hear that, mate."

"Yeah, me too. Her name was Katrina. My father- Ognjen, meaning _fire-_ blamed me for her death. So, that's how the abuse started… as far as I can remember, he's hated me. Sometimes he'd take to drink and I'd have no choice but to cower in the corner and hear his stories, and then he'd say again and again and _again_ how it was my fault."

"Crazy fucker," Seb muttered.

"That about describes it."

"Where are you from?"

"Devínska Nová Ves, Bratislava Four, Bratislava."

Seb's eyebrows furrowed. "Bratislava- capital of Slovakia?"

"Yeah. But it fits."

"How?" Moran wondered, biting the apple again.

"Radovan Rafinovaný Mäsiar," Radovan recited, telling Moran his full name for the first time. _"The joyful, cunning butcher,_ if translated properly."

Moran paused from taking that bite of his apple, staring at the wall opposite.

_"The joyful, cunning butcher."_

"Yes."

"Fuck, your parents were practically labeling you as a hit-man. You were fucked from day one, mate."

Radovan's lips twitched. "Seems so. This is what I am, Seb. Take it or leave it."

At that exact moment, the door was flung open; Moriarty stormed in.

The two assassins instantly turned, watching as he approached them.

He threw a small box- about a foot long- at Radovan, who caught it with one hand, quickly opening it as Moriarty waited impatiently.

He drew out the stiff pieces of paper first- two of them.

"Germany to Bratislava," he read aloud, then dug down into the box. "Passports, and enough cash for a fare to and from… Bratislava main airport," he calculated, dragging old memories back into the light. "Distance, going by the fare… Devínska Nová Ves."

He looked up.

"Why Devínska?" Radovan queried.

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "I'm disappointed it hasn't crossed your mind."

Radovan frowned. "There's nothing in Bratislava, Jim. No targets, nothing noteworthy." _The Morava, churning and dangerous to cross. The drug dealers. The fight for survival. The barbed wire fence that stood as a constant reminder of the Iron Curtain._

"Isn't there?"

Radovan didn't think it remotely relevant- it was his vendetta, nobody cared about it- but it was all he had.

"Ognjen Mäsiar lives there still. But he can't possibly be-"

"He is," Moriarty sang softly, his eyes shining with a brilliant, frighteningly fervent joy.

Radovan's heart skipped a beat.

"Deathly serious?"

"Deathly."

Slowly, Radovan grinned.

Vengeance had a sweet, sweet flavor.

"Come on, Seb," he called, standing. "We've got work to do!"

**

Radovan stepped away from the airport, taking a breath and pushing the collar of his coat higher. Not only was in colder in Slovakia, but even though his brain called it illogical, part of him feared being recognized.

He hadn't walked the streets of this city for a very, _very_ long time.

And that had been a different Radovan Mäsiar: a boy terrified of his home, killing animals to try to find some outlet for the insane storm of emotions inside him.

It had been a boy who had yet to discover a bone-deep love for the thrill of the kill, or to make his kill mark.

"Bratislava," Radovan said to Moran by way of introduction, waving a hand at the capital in general. "My childhood. My home."

Sebastian pulled his coat closer around his shoulders, looking around.

"This is District One," Radovan murmured. "There are… six of them, I believe. I didn't have time to fully commit that to memory before I left."

"And we're heading for Four?"

"Devínska," Radovan said softly, and for the first time since Sebastian had known him, Slovakia curled around that one word like wisps of smoke, accentuating the syllables and defining the accent sharply.

Moran gave him a sidelong look.

Radovan raised an eyebrow.

"I never really noticed you had an accent."

"I don't, not usually. Sometimes it resurfaces."

Sifting through memories, Sebastian had to realize that the accent had always subtly been there; he'd just never really noticed.

"Do you know you curse in Slovak when you're really pissed at something?"

"Really?"

"Yeah."

There was silence.

"You're stalling. Afraid?"

"Of the kill? Never." Radovan pulled his coat closer. "Just… thinking."

"About?"

"I don't know if I want to do this." It spilled out, the words clawing from his throat. "I hadn't thought about him for years until today. I was _over_ it, Seb. I know why he did it, I know what his though process was, and I'd forgotten him. He was nothing to me. He didn't exist."

"It doesn't matter if you don't want to. You heard what Jim said, you know the rules: make the kill, or else. If we don't have a good excuse when we get back, we're going to be skinned."

"Well…"

"Oh, let me guess what I'm going to have to say, Radovan: 'Hey, Jim, listen, we didn't make the kill because our favorite Slovakian chickened out to be all sentimental and fucking cowardly-'"

In an instant, Radovan drew a dagger, pointing it at Moran's throat.

_"Don't call me a coward,"_ he ordered, and his voice was low, Slovakia baring her fangs.

Sebastian's eyes glinted with approval.

"That's more like it."

Radovan glared, sheathing the knife before turning back to the city and shaking himself.

Trepidation faded, and the sweet adrenaline of the hunt hummed in his veins.

"Let's get on with it, then," Radovan declared, walking into the streets of Bratislava I as if he'd lived on them his entire life.

*

His strides were long and confident; he didn't hesitate in the slightest as he approached the door, raising a hand to knock on it.

_Come on, just do the job…_

_Oh, it's more than a job. This is revenge._

"Hello, Father," Radovan greeted pleasantly in Slovak. "Did you miss me?"

**

You don't fuck around with Radovan Mäsiar and live.

I hope this justifies the wait, guys- I'll make it up to you, and I wanted to get this _exactly_ right.

An intelligent reader might have noticed that I used a colon after _This Is What I Am,_ which could possibly mean that I intend to use the prefix again…

Announcing a _**possible**_ fanfic: _"Walk in the Moonlight"._ It's very very very closely related to _The Dark Side of the Moon-_ in fact, it's a splitoff, with a few huge AU twists.

It's a view through a window that might have been opened: What if Radovan Mäsiar had stabbed Lydia just a bit lower, in a spot that created a wound that was survivable? What if- oh, no, wait, you guys don't know about that plotline yet… *maniacal giggling* Oh, I've already given you pieces of it.

Speaking of plotlines: On Thanksgiving, Lo613 and I went through and counting all of them. Not the plotlines that are dead and finished, but the ones that are active and still have yet to reach their end.

You know how many we figured out?

Twenty-three.

_Twenty-three._

Oh, the hints are there for anybody who wants to find them. I'd recommend starting with the Undershaw scenes, of Sherlock alone and wandering.

You just might find that big thread that's the second huge part of _Walk in the Moonlight._


	67. I'll Take the Case

I'll Take the Case

67

Hot water was ecstasy.

That was all that he particularly cared about, scouring dirt from his skin under a blissful deluge of it. Hot water was one of the best things in the world, and anybody who disagreed could go fuck themselves.

The little bubble of joy popped almost-audibly with a firm knock to the door.

_Three sure, close-together hits, quite certain of what he wants and who he's dealing with, expecting a hassle but braced for it-_

"What do you want, Valspar?" Sherlock asked irritably, peering out from behind the curtain of the shower as his sort-of-companion cracked the door to look in, squinting to look through the steam.

"There's some guy here."

"Boring."

"Says he's looking for you."

"He can wait."

"Says he's heard that you've operated in some sort of police capacity in the past, but he didn't feel like taking this to the police, so he came here."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose.

"Give me five minutes."

The one time they managed to lay hold of a house that had a decent-sized water heater, Sherlock mused to himself as the door closed, the _one_ time that he managed to take advantage of it, something interesting happened.

Well, the water heater would always wait.

*

He sprawled in an armchair that was properly too small for his frame, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag off of it before letting his arm dangle off of the edge of the chair.

"Explain yourself," Sherlock said to the stranger, breathing out smoke. "And don't be boring."

The stranger shifted uneasily in his chair. "Well," he started cautiously, "it began with-"

"You're doing it wrong," Mohammad interrupted.

The stranger- Slovakian accent, not very well off, lived closed to wilderness- stared.

"He's doing it wrong," the Afghani complained, lowering the lid of his laptop slightly to give Sherlock a pleading look. "Come on, you've got to see it."

"He's doing it wrong," Valspar agreed, sprawled on the couch behind the stranger, a gun held carelessly in his hand, arm dangling.

"Name," Mohammad ordered, returning to his laptop now that order had been restored to the universe.

"We need to know your name," Valspar clarified.

"He's right," Sherlock added.

The stranger, having imitated a weasel trying to watch them all as they spoke, finally gave up and settled for keeping his eyes on Sherlock.

"I'm not sure if that's relevant-"

"Bitch, please," Valspar sighed, gesturing with the gun.

The stranger swallowed visibly.

"And where you're from," Mohammad added.

"And your date of birth and the numbers of your bank accounts and your mother's maiden name."

"Excessive, Valspar," Mohammad said wearily. "Shut up."

The Slovakian attempted to regain some of his dignity by glaring at them. "Plamen," he sneered. "As I was saying-"

"-before we made him make sense," Valspar muttered to Mohammad, who snorted-

"-I came here because I was told you were a good place to start with this sort of thing-"

"Hold it." Mohammad raised a hand; Sherlock smirked. "Came from where?"

"Slovakia," Plamen hissed. "Bratislava, the district of Devínska Nová Ves."

Satisfaction flashed briefly in Sherlock's eyes. "Continue, then."

Plamen waited a moment, verifying that he was finally allowed to speak uninterrupted.

"My brother was murdered."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised; he leaned forward. "Explain."

"His name was Ognjen," Plamen said, glaring at Mohammad; Valspar rolled his eyes. "And two days ago, someone broke into his house and killed him. Brutally."

"Did you call the police?" Sherlock queried.

"I was told not to."

Valspar sighed, drastically exaggerating it, as it was his preferred outlet for emotion when he wasn't allowed to curse at company.

"By who?" he groaned.

"I'm coming to that," Plamen snapped.

"How was he killed?" Sherlock interrupted.

Plamen's hands clenched into fists.

"He was eviscerated. Held down and gutted while he was still alive." He could remember, vividly, the splashes of blood on the walls, the clear signs that his brother had been furiously alive as it had happened.

Valspar looked faintly green; Mohammad quite smoothly pulled out a pair of headphones and put them on, the keyboard of his laptop clicking as he turned up the volume on whatever music track he was listening to.

A keen interest glowed in Sherlock's eyes; he pressed his fingertips together.

"A gruesome, time-consuming death that takes several hours to properly inflict, and nerves of steel on the part of the murderer," he murmured. "It requires an intense rage or purpose, rage being more likely, statistically. But why would someone want to murder a nobody in Devínska so brutally..?"

"I went to visit him only hours ago," Plamen added. "I discovered his body, and called my nephew, who told me to go to you."

_How does the nephew know of me?_

"His name?" Valspar sighed.

"Most definitely irrelevant."

"It might not be." Sherlock came out of his vaguely trancelike state. "What's the address?"

Plamen seemed confused as he recited it.

And then, as he stood, Sherlock spoke the words that over the years, would change the fate of nations.

"I'll take the case."

Plamen blinked. "You will?"

"Yes. It will takes me a few hours to make the necessary arrangements, but I'll be along shortly."

Valspar stared. "We're going to fucking Slovakia?"

"Seriously?" Mohammad asked, pausing in his work.

"Deathly," Sherlock verified, pulling out the small notebook he carried. "Contact…" He flicked through it, judging who would be best for the job. "Stillman," he decided, jotting down a note, "Tell him we need identification, passports- make it a full suite- for a trip to Slovakia."

Mohammad sighed, turning away from government files briefly to his email.

**British-Saker:** We need three full suites. Highest priority if you can; time is of the utmost importance.

**miscellaneouspapers:** Timeframe?

**British-Saker:** Within a few hours, please.

**miscellaneouspapers:** Good enough for a trip to..?

**British-Saker:** Slovakia. Bratislava. Do they have an airport in Devínska Nová Ves?

**miscellaneouspapers:** Money or a favor?

"Money or favor credit?" Mohammad repeated.

"Favor credit," Sherlock replied, flicking through his notebook and adding notes to it.

**British-Saker:** The second.

**miscellaneouspapers:** It's a good thing the three of you can pass for being a lot older than you are. Give me ninety minutes. I've got blank cards on hand.

"Ninety minutes," Mohammad announced, looking up and noticing Plamen was on the verge of leaving. "Wait!"

The Slovakian looked back, framed by the doorway.

"Last name?"

The other half-smiled.

"Mäsiar," he replied. "My name is Plamen Mäsiar."

**

And the plot thickens to the hardness of cement.

If you caught on the fact that _Ognjen_ means _Fire_ and _Plamen_ means _Flame,_ then you get like a shower of rewards and this fact: the opening scene of _Walk in the Moonlight_ is based on the introductory scenes of Assassin's Creed II, through Ezio's perspective.

So, Ognjen's brother goes to Sherlock, who takes the case, _as per Ognjen's son's directions…_

Don't touch the computer screen. That plotline may burn your fingers.

The delay was caused by starting real school. I love it. I've started writing chapters in my notebook in my spare time, which reminds me that a hand-tiring paragraph turns into two lines of 12pt Verdana, and that will turn into like one line of text.

Blah.

Anyway, I'm back! Sixty-Eight is called… dundundun… um… _Ancient Inferno_ is the first thing that comes to mind, so we're going to use that.


	68. Ancient Inferno

Ancient Inferno

68

The door closed, but the sound never registered.

Sherlock's eyes widened, his pupils dilating; he sucked in a breath involuntarily.

_Mäsiar._

"Mäsiar, Plamen," Mohammad recited, having finally found the files he wanted. "Citizen of Devínska, brother to Ognjen Mäsiar. Ognjen Mäsiar, wife who died in childbirth, Katrina Mäsiar. Son, age… nineteen, Radovan Mäsiar."

Sherlock's reaction was equal to what a normal person would have done if a gun was fired a few inches from their face.

His fingers flexed, clenching into fists and unclenching and repeating and oh my god his mind just wouldn't let the memories lie still and not be brought to the front and thinking about it was all it took to trigger them-

_Stepping through the snow, the snake's blood on his knife. Meeting her eyes as Zajic fell at her feet, tranquilized, and smiling._

The smile failing as grey eyes glinting in the trees across from her. Throwing the grenade. Pulling her behind a tree.

The ridiculous moment where they'd both laughed, just a little, even though it was massive inappropriate. Maybe because of it.

The field.

The terror, the horror, the dread, the fear.

Grey eyes.

The moonlight gleaming on the scimitar.

Blood, staining the snow.

Her fingers on his cheek; her voice in his ear, giving him words that he'd pledged never to share.

Her last request: End it. End him. For me.

_The fight. Pain, of metal slicing flesh. The futility of the struggle, Radovan's massive advantage._

Cutting his hand to the bone on the improvised knife: he still had the scar. Seizing it as it was about to be drawn to end his life.

Blackness. The pain in his arm, becoming a million times worse when inspected.

Mycroft, cleaning his wounds and disinfecting them; the request to be alone, playing the Stradivari until he just collapsed.

And by any higher power that possibly existed, the nightmares-

_"Sherlock."_

He jumped violently, coming back to himself, then clawing at the hands on his shoulders.

_Get away, get away, get away-_

"Jesus, mate, you alright?"

_Valspar. Not… him. London, not the countryside, some miserable slum instead of a forsaken woods in winter-_

"I'm fine," Sherlock managed, stepping back.

Mohammad, his eyebrows meeting in a _V_ over his dark brown eyes- Sherlock hadn't really ever taken the time to look properly before, and now he underwent a vaguely invasive-feeling inspection by them.

"You had a flashback," the Afghani said slowly, eyes narrowing. "When I said-"

Sherlock flinched.

"…the son's name," Mohammad delicately danced around the actual words, "you just… had some sort of… fit, is the best way to describe it. You went all pale, starting hyperventilating, totally freaked out. Valspar had to practically scream at you to get you out of it."

"I'd recommend cutting your fingernails or something," Valspar muttered, rubbed at the back of his hand, fingertips coming away red.

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered.

"There's something you're not telling us."

Sherlock raised his head.

"Something big," Mohammad added, closing his laptop. "Something beyond big. I've never, ever seen you come remotely close to losing control like that. I watched you kill someone and dump his body in the Thames without so much as blinking out of tune. And yet two words, a _name,_ make you completely lose your composure?"

Sherlock, even in this state, was observant enough to know that if Mohammad had closed his laptop, something he never did unless he had to relocate, meant that _it's nothing_ would not suffice as an answer.

"It's a long story," he tried evasively.

"We've got an hour and a half until Stillman comes with the papers," Valspar reminded him, slowly taking a seat.

Sherlock numbly did the same.

"Well," he began, "it's complicated. I'd… better start at the beginning. My brother asked me to dig up information on a gang that was causing him trouble…"

_{Yes, it was actually all the way back in chapter sixteen that we first heard of the gang. I remember just randomly picking a name out of thin air because I was dead certain that plotline would just be a one-chapter blip. Then I remember her last minute when she was introduced and had to look back to see what her name was. And now she's a core element of the story. Funny how that happens.}_

When it was over, the other two simply stared.

"This was hers," Sherlock finished, lifting the chain over his head and letting the necklace hang from his fingers. "She gave it to me, although I didn't find it until… after."

At that exact moment, there was a knock on the door.

"Excellent," he said abruptly, changing the subject as Mohammad and Valspar sat silently processing the new information. He stood, opening the door.

"Good enough for the authorities, England to Slovakia," Stillman said coolly, handing over a package. "They're a bit lax there, nice and easy to fool. Consider it a favor."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied easily, taking it. "Oh, and by the way, your girlfriend's an assassin paid to get close to you and is planning to kill you within the week. Dump her immediately."

"Consider the favor repaid."

As the door closed and Sherlock turned back to the main room, pulling out the documents and examining them, Valspar regaining basic functions.

"How did you know that?"

"His arms, his neck, his stance."

"Clarify?"

"Well, his girlfriend's obviously been rough on him. Not just in the standard way, but going way overboard while trying to conceal it as standard. He's extremely sore, shows in the way he holds himself, and he's got red marks on his arms and neck. Why would she want him weak? To kill him. Why would she want to kill him, as she could get more money by being his pet? She's getting a bigger fee to do the job. Lo, paid assassin who wants to make the hit within the week."

Valspar stared.

"…Freak."

"That's _really_ starting to get old, you know."

*

"Mohammad, you know what to do," Sherlock said, straightening his jacket.

"M-hmm," the Afghani agreed, totally engrossed in some sort of electronic device.

"Valspar, just shut up and say nothing."

"Okay," Valspar muttered.

As they went through the airport, Mohammad never took his eyes off of the mobile device.

"The joyful butcher," he said under his breath. "No, wait, the joyful, _cunning_ butcher. Fucking creep."

Valspar walked beside him, peering at the screen.

"You mind putting mine in?" he breathed. "I've always wondered what my name means."

A moment, as he heard Sherlock check in his ticket under the name Desmond Miles.

"I was named after a _brand_ of _paint."_

"What were you parents smoking?" Mohammad asked, putting away the mobile. "I mean really, naming your kid after a brand of paint- and a shitty brand of paint at that- that's just pitiful."

"A brand of paint," Valspar repeated under his breath. "Sherlock gets a fancy Latin name, you get…"

"Prophet. Of Allah. Properly dramatic."

"A fecking prophet of God, and I'm a fucking brand of paint?"

"It does suck to be you." He stepped up to the counter. "Yes, a reservation under the name of Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad?"

Valspar sighed, digging in his pocket for his own documents. "And Ezio Auditore."

*

_{Altaïr is pronounced Alt-ai-ir. Basically, count the weird I as two i-s. Imagine it spelled as Altai'ir. That's my understanding, at least.}_

{Ezio is pronounce 'etzio'. That's Italian for you.}

{All of these names were shamelessly stolen from Assassin's Creed II. I regret nothing, it's a bloody brilliant game.}

*

"You ever been on a plane before?"

Mohammad, sprawled happily across his seat, tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"I was, when I came over from Afghanistan. What about you?"

Sherlock thought about it. "Not that I can remember."

Valspar twitched as the plane shifted slightly. "For me, never," he muttered, gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white.

Mohammad looked around, making sure that anyone who cared wasn't watching, then pulled out his mobile.

**British-Saker:** _Valspar's never been on a plane before. He's totally freaking out._

**The-TARDIS-in-Afghanistan:** _Please, tell me everything. I mean everything._

As Valspar had a nervous breakdown, and Mohammad contentedly talked with his cousin, Sherlock sat silently, perfectly still.

For him, unlike the other two, this wasn't just some random trip to a foreign country.

This was deep, and personal.

This was combat with evil, a fight that would stoke the ancient inferno tended by ghosts.

**

Most authors: "Ugh. I'm sick. Here's a shitty patch chapter to keep you guys from rioting."

Me: "Ugh, I'm sick. Let's stay awake until four in the morning and write lots of chapters for _The Dark Side of the Moon!_ Let's listen to Pandora while we're at it! Make them good chapters. And long. Like really long compared to the crap you've been putting out lately!

_Merry Christmas, to everyone who reads this. Or Happy Hanukkah, or whatever floats your boat. Happy holidays, in general. Or happy new year if you don't celebrate a holiday.  
And we didn't die. Aren't you glad? See what you get for surviving?_

YOU ARE A SURVIVOR OF THE APOCALYPSE. And it was supposed to happen seven months ago, actually, because the Mayans didn't count leap years.

There was something I wanted to say here…

Please don't wish me sick in the hope that it will trigger another writing spree. That's like, uncool. It's only a sore throat and congestion, probably just a 24-hour deal, but karma will whack my ass if somebody wishes it on me.

_Don't. You. Dare._

I'll set Seb Moran on you, I swear.

OH.

Sometime in the past weeks, somebody, somewhere, recommended me. Both _On the Side of the Angels_ and _The Dark Side of the Moon_ gained a fistful of followers and reviews.  
Whoever you are… _I want to know who you are, like seriously._


	69. Market Run

Market Run

69

"Two bracers, one on each forearm. Explain."

"One holds a close range weapon, one holds a long range."

"Continue."

The merchant lifted one of the bracers, tilting it so Mohammad could see it more clearly. "Made of kangaroo leather, reinforced with a titanium-beryllium alloy. The mechanism-" He flipped it, displaying where the fine filigree-like netting of the metal concentrated- "can hold either a small to medium-length blade or firearm."

Intrigued, Mohammad picked it up. He slipped his arm inside of it, then cinched the straps down, flexing his hand experimentally.

"It fits like a glove."

"Yes. It won't pinch any nerves or blood vessels."

"And it's quite comfortable as well."

"It's designed for long-term wear."

"How much?"

"Fifteen hundred pounds for the pair."

Mohammad lifted his gaze from the armguard.

"You call a steep price, Kaczmarek."

"Kangaroo leather, titanium-beryllium alloy, a mechanism that can adapt for either a hidden blade or gun? I don't think so."

"You expect an immigrant to have fifteen hundred quid?" he inquired smoothly, unstrapping the bracer and placing it on the wooden counter next to its twin.

"Quid," the smuggler repeated. "You speak like a Brit. You're no fresh immigrant, and you obviously have enough of the ready to pay someone to save your hide for you."

Mohammad smirked. "More like he recruited me."

"What's his name? He does good work."

"He is the nameless shadow. He's He Who Walks Alone."

Kaczmarek stared. "He Who Walks Alone?"

"Dramatic, isn't it?" Mohammad pulled out his wallet. "Fifteen hundred, I believe you said?"

*

"And just how," Valspar hissed, "did we get into this situation?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Why the bloody hell are you asking me?"

"This situation", to be precise, was slowly backing down an alleyway while two as-of-yet anonymous pursuers advanced.

"Why didn't I research Bratislavian geography on the way here?" Sherlock muttered. _"Why?_ Stupid."

"Shut up," Valspar snapped.

Sherlock made a vaguely feral sound at him, bracing himself and tightening his grip on his knife.

_Stab the one on the left just below his collarbone, cut his throat, parry the attack from the one on the right, grab him and cut his throat-_

At that moment, the one on the left gave a strangled yelp.

Fingers clasped around his neck, tilting his head back; the knife flashed, cutting deep as blood spilled.

The one on the right gave a shocked cry, lifting his dagger; the figure simply grabbed his wrist and twisted it. The bone snapped audibly, and as he screamed, the knife bit into his throat.

The figure knelt beside the body, bracing a knee on the corpse's spine, wrenching the blade free.

It stood, Valspar slowly backing up and Sherlock tilting his head in curiosity.

_He saved us; there'd be no point for him to attack…_

"Really, it's offensive that it's taking you so long to recognize me," a familiar voice said.

Sherlock smirked. "Valspar, you coward."

"You didn't, either," the other snapped, quickly coming forward.

"Abandoning your companion under stress- definitely not very chivalrous," Mohammad said, stepped forward and shaking his head. Sherlock had never noticed that he had shoulder-length hair; he'd always kept it tied.

"I-"

"Already knew he was useless when it came to the sticking point," Sherlock said by way of greeting, stepping closer to the bodies and examining them. "Nice work. Where'd you learn it?"

"Met this guy in Jalalabad when I was still in Afghanistan," Mohammad replied, pulling at something on his forearm. "Tough old bastard. He taught me some things. Merry Christmas, by the way."

Intrigued, Sherlock took the bracer, examining it as Mohammad removed the other one.

"Titanium-beryllium alloy," he noted, turning it over. "With a setting designed to hold a blade or a small firearm for concealed carrying. Very useful."

"Yeah, I thought so. They'll come in handy, I think."

"Definitely," Sherlock agreed, slipping it on.

**

Short chapter. I'm not dead, story's not on hiatus, and _will not be until I say so explicitly._

Now, what I really want to say:

_Walk in the Moonlight_ has been posted! Designed as a companion piece to this, it hints heavily at plotlines. Different things are, well, Lydia didn't die. And Sherlock's sister, Seraphine, who was murdered when he was four- it's _extremely_ complicated- is still alive and features heavily. Currently set in Florence, Italy, after the divorce of their parents. If you've read this, go read that. _Now._

Do I have to tell you that Sherlock is an assassin to make you do it?

This will still be updated, _Walk in the Moonlight_ will receive many updates, and I am most definitely alive.

Hi.

Now go read. Thanks.


End file.
